Nine for Mortal Men
by gythia
Summary: What happened to the rings of the Nazgul after the war?
1. Chapter 1

Nine For Mortal Men

Disclaimer: This is a fanfic. I don't own the characters, places, etc.

There was no particular reason for Merry and Pippin to be in throne room this morning, except to enjoy the spectacle of Strider the Ranger attempting to appear lofty and impartial when rendering judgments on the latest complaint of sheep-thievery along the border of Gondor and Rohan, or even worse, pretending he was not bored with the petty backstabbing of his courtiers. Of course, reflected Pippin, actual backstabbing would not have been boring. A little knifework would have livened things right up. He suppressed a snort at his own thought. That was hardly a hobbitlike sentiment. He had been in foreign parts too long.

There was a lull in the day's business as a servitor brought around a tray of wine, serving the king first, then the queen, then passing among the courtiers in no particular order. Merry and Pippin each snagged themselves a glass and drifted over to Aragorn, who was momentarily unoccupied with any more elusive conversation.

Pippin climbed halfway up the steps to the throne and sat down within easy speaking range of Aragorn, which caused a bit of a murmur among the courtiers, though no one dared pluck him off the stairs. He was the Prince of the Halflings, after all, and still wore the fine black livery with the White Tree embroidered on it, although it was a bit tight. The murmuring died down as the courtiers pressed close to the foot of the throne to hear what the Ernil I Pheriannath and the King were saying to one another. In addition to the usual faces of the important men and women of the city, there were a few foreigners, ambassadors and merchants, and Faramir was visiting from Ithilien.

"All this," Pippin asked casually, waving a hand to include everything in front of the throne, "this fine city and realm, and all its armies, fine clothes, and servants to bring you wine, a soft bed at night, plenty of food, a bath whenever you want one, nearly everybody around you falling over themselves to obey you and do you honor—does it make up for losing the freedom of the road?"

Aragorn sprayed wine halfway down the stairs. "What would you know of—never mind. I don't think I want to know. That's hardly a fit subject for the king's court."

Pippin blinked innocently at him. "Everybody knows you were a Ranger, Aragorn. It's hardly a secret."

Aragorn sighed. "Pippin, you have a talent for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time."

Arwen snickered behind her hand.

Pippin did not know what he had said, but he realized he had put his hairy foot in it again. If Gandalf had been here, he would no doubt be calling him a fool of a Took and telling him exactly how to remove his foolish head from his body. Big Folk could be maddeningly hard to figure out sometimes. He was just considering how to find a neutral topic—he thought he HAD been asking about a neutral topic—when Faramir came to his rescue. Or at least, put in the spoke he'd come to speak, as the Shire saying went.

"My Lord, if we could turn to matters of import. There is a new presence in Mordor. Men, Easterling Men in the main, but with a disturbingly long and sudden list of allies."

"Oh? Go on, Lord Steward," Aragorn said, emphasizing the official nature of this conversation by using the title. Aragorn leaned forward in interest.

Faramir stepped up onto the wide platform at the bottom of the stair, where the chair of the Ruling Steward used to be. There was nothing there now, but Faramir still thought of it as "his" step. "Their leader calls himself Lord Chin. He apparently was the chief of an Easterling army that came to serve the Enemy, and has now taken over the Tower of Cirith Ungol for his men. Surrounding lands in Mordor are filled with the tents and wagons of his allies. Somehow he has gained the allegiance of a disparate collection of different kinds of men, and one half-orc in charge of what orcs of Mordor survived and did not flee to the mountains, in a very short few months' time. I do not know how he did this. He was not in a favored position with the Enemy. Indeed, all those who were have perished, for they were indoors when the Dark Tower fell, and the Towers of the Teeth also. His men were far back in the line behind the Black Gate in the last battle, and escaped its ruin and the belchings of the Mountain by being distant from both. Since then surviving Enemy forces have flocked to him, and they say there is a strange power about him. Worse, men who were not allies of the Enemy have come to serve him as well."

"This is grave news," said Aragorn. "What more can you tell me?"

"He has seven major allies. The half-orc is called Durbatu. The others are Men. Three who were Easterling captains and kings in their own right, with their own forces assembled in Mordor, named Yamotaq, Shann, and Skuryokhav. The Haradric captain, Mumude. And two who were not servants of the Enemy, who have joined him recently. A Rhovanian lord, called Hodur, and a leader of brigands named Tarondor, him being an outlaw from Umbar—and what exactly he could have done to be exiled by the Corsairs I know not—"

"There is a measure of law in Umbar," Aragorn interrupted. "But go on."

"Lord Chin is a dangerous man, my Lord. And he has sent a messenger to me in Ithilien asking for an audience with you. To discuss a peace treaty."

Aragorn's eyebrows lifted. "An audience? To come here personally, not to send an ambassador?"

"Indeed, my Lord. He claims he will leave the armies he has massed and come with but little escort, trusting you would not assail a potential ally under a flag of truce. I suspect some trap. I know not what. But according to my spy among the brigands, even so did Chin come to Tarondor, and left but a day later with Tarondor's fealty. And the spy tells me that Tarondor had no intention of even entertaining the idea of an alliance, much less pledging his loyalty. He accepted the embassy only in the hope of establishing trade relations."

"Hmm. Perhaps he does have some kind of magic. But we have some here as well. Gandalf is still in Minas Tirith. Surely he could counter any sorcery Chin may possess. Does Chin purpose to make war if I do not allow him to talk peace?"

"That is the implication of assembling an army, I believe, my Lord."

"Then I will hear him. With Gandalf by my side, I have no fear of being enspelled. Tell him he may come."

Faramir looked like he had bitten into something sour, but he nodded. "As you will, Your Majesty."

It was several weeks later when Lord Chin and his retinue came to Minas Tirith. He brought only a small escort into the city, as promised, consisting of two guards, a servant, and four bearers carrying a small box between them on poles. Banners hung from the poles, rippling in the breeze. Below the city on the Pelennor Fields, a stouter troop of guards waited, along with a baggage train, and his seven allies and their officers and servants. The colorful and varied tents of the eight different kinds of soldiers were a curiosity that drew many to the walls of the city to look upon them. But those who were privileged to hold open invitations to the king's court went there instead, to watch the peace negotiations.

Merry and Pippin were there, along with a crowd of men. They had asked Frodo and Sam to join them, to gawk at the different kinds of men if nothing else, but Frodo had said he felt troubled and had no mind for entertainment. Merry and Pippin had not bothered to ask after the nature of this trouble, for Sam would look after him, and in any case Frodo rarely wished to speak of that which shadowed his heart.

Lord Chin's box carriers entered first, then Chin and his men. The box was of carved wood, chased with silver. Lord Chin came to the foot of the stairs in front of Aragorn's throne and announced, "I desire peace with Gondor and its allies. In token of this, I have brought a peace offering. Please accept my gift, King Elessar, in earnest of the mutual profit that peace will bring your peoples and mine, and those of my allies."

"I thank you for your gift and your offer of peace," Aragorn said, motioning the box bearers forward. He walked down the steps until he stood on only the third step, within reach of the box. He was bending forward to turn back the lid on its hinge and display the peace offering when a small figure ran into the room screaming.

"No! Don't touch it, Aragorn!"

Pippin was startled to recognize Frodo. His face was wild, his blue eyes white-rimmed.

Aragorn paused in his reach for the box. "Frodo? What is wrong?"

Frodo wheeled on Chin. "You would bring this poisonous thing here." Frodo's voice had turned from a shriek of terror to an oddly menacing tone, almost a growl, a peculiar sound to hear coming out of a hobbit. "Fool! Do you think to ensnare Aragorn as you have trapped your other 'allies'? You did not reckon on me."

"What is going on?" Aragorn asked. He turned to Gandalf, standing beside the throne. "Gandalf, what is it?"

"I do not know. But my heart misgives me. You suspected a trap from the first, perhaps the box is it."

"But you sense no wizardry."

"Not all magic is obvious even to a wizard. Just as not all whistles call men, but some only the guard dogs can hear."

In the meantime, Frodo had advanced on the box, shaking. His eyes rolled halfway up in his head, so that he had to cock his head at an odd angle to see, and he was mumbling something.

Chin barked a command in the Easterling tongue. One of his guards stepped forward to fend Frodo away from the box. Frodo snarled, tripped the guard, and jumped onto the box. The box bearers dropped their poles and rushed forward, but they did not get there in time. Frodo unlatched the box and grabbed whatever was inside. He turned back to Chin, pointed at him with the hand that held the peace offering, and growled, "Down! Down on the ground before me!"

To everyone's surprise—most of all Chin's, by his expression—Chin dropped to the ground. He looked up at Frodo in horror. "How did you do that?" whispered Chin. Chin's men cleared away from Frodo, afraid.

"You think you have the will to wield this power? Fool! Will gets in the way! You cannot use it until you have no will left! What is required is attunement. And that you can never have, for the Eye is closed forever."

"Frodo!" Aragorn called. "What is it?!"

For answer Frodo brought his other hand up. He looked like he was wringing his hands, and then everyone saw the glint of gold. He held up his right hand, the one missing a finger, and there was a ring on it.

Pippin felt himself gasp. Not a ring! This one had a stone, though. A glittering black stone.

"Not much power left," Frodo commented. His tone was almost normal, and somehow Pippin thought that was even creepier than the snarling had been. Frodo looked at his hand. "Not even a little transparent. Well, maybe a small amount. Just a pale reflection of its former self. The wraith it held bound to itself for so long is fled. There is not enough magic left here to keep it undead. But there is still a little power. Just enough to influence a Mortal mind. As you have found. Have you not, Easterling king?"

From the ground, Chin spat, "How can you be doing this? I hold the chief!"

Frodo walked toward him slowly. "Yes, the chief. I know its cold touch well. You wear the Ring of the Witch-King of Angmar. Idiot. You cannot turn one of the Nine into the One. There is no Ruling Ring now."

"Then—then how are you doing it?" asked Chin.

Frodo laughed evilly. The sound set the hair on Pippin's neck on end. Aragorn stepped off the stair and onto the stone floor, pacing after Frodo with a confused expression on his face, halfway between concern for Frodo and wariness of him. Gandalf took a step forward as well.

Frodo rasped, "I am not doing it. This is. Did I not tell you that will gets in the way? This comes not from me, but from the ancient words that echo within me. Have you sensed that dark potential? But two lines of poetry, forever branded in the place where my soul used to be." To the horror of all present, Frodo began to chant in the Black Speech, softly, as he glided across the floor.

"And your allies—seven. This that I hold is the last of the set. How convenient that you have brought the others with you, camped before the walls of the city. Bad strategy, that. Or perhaps you knew the limits of your magic? You cannot let them stray far from you, or your influence will wane. That is it, isn't it?"

Frodo stopped within arm's reach of Chin. Chin began to struggle, clearly trying to rise and assault the Halfling, and roared in anger when he could not.

Frodo waited in eerie calm for Chin's shouting to cease. Then he whispered, "Give it to me." Frodo held out his be-ringed hand, and Chin's arm slipped out from under him and started rising. Chin's arm shook. The finger on which his ring rode rose faster than the rest of his hand, and he hooked his finger again and again in an attempt to call it back, but his hand kept rising.

At last, Chin's trembling hand splayed, and Frodo plucked the ring from it. Then Chin's arm fell to the ground again. Frodo put on the second ring.

"Call your allies, Easterling king," Frodo whispered. "Send your guards to bring a message to them, to come up here. All seven, alone, with no guards. You will do this, or I shall command you to slay yourself, and you will do it. I have done it before."

Chin gestured to his men. "Go, do as he says." His men fled the room. "How are you doing this?" Chin asked. "I no longer wear a ring, yet you still keep me like this!"

"You have worn it too long, Easterling king. You have left your mind open to its call. You never took it off, even to sleep, did you? You dared not, once you had given the other rings to your allies."

"How do you know this?"

"It speaks to me. Can you not hear it? They both do. Each with its own voice. The voices of the other seven are distinct, too. I cannot quite understand them yet. They are not near enough. But soon."

Aragorn had now come up right behind Frodo, only a step away, but doubt was in his face. He did not know what to do. For a long time, no one spoke or moved. Except Frodo, who began whispering in the Black Speech of Mordor, and caressing the two rings he wore.

At last the seven allies came into the room. At first they rushed in as if to defend Chin, but then Frodo looked at them, blue eyes wide and feral, and they halted. Frodo went to each of them in turn, and took their rings from them. Each tried to fight, and each was as unsuccessful as Chin. He put on each ring as he acquired it, and with each one, he got a little more transparent. As he moved, patches of his skin went invisible for a few seconds at a time, revealing muscles and bone beneath.

Now Frodo had a ring on each finger—nine fingers, nine rings. His face flickered between living flesh, skull, and the horror in between.

"Go," Frodo whispered. "Leave. Go home. Go back to your armies and take them home with you. Never again trouble Gondor or the West, never again touch the artifacts of Sauron. Flee from me, for I am not merciful. I leave you alive only so that you may suffer as I do. You will walk forever in the shadow world, empty, forlorn, bereft. You will fare in hateful longing to the end of your days. For Precious is gone. Go now."

As one, they rose. They turned as one and walked out the door of the throne room like sleepwalkers. For several minutes, nobody moved. Then Frodo sighed and swooned. He fell backward, and Aragorn caught him. Frodo came awake with a wild yell and twisted away. "Keep back!"

Aragorn gestured with empty hands. "Frodo. It's me."

Frodo blinked at him, and his expression softened to something approaching normal. "Don't get too close, Strider. I am dripping with shadow."

Just then Sam came barreling through the door. He halted when he saw Frodo's hands. "Frodo! Me dear! Take them off!"

And Frodo took off the rings. A collective sigh escaped the assembled people. Frodo held the Nine in his two hands. "Now what do I do?" Frodo wondered.

"Are those—" Sam started to ask.

"Rings of Power? Yes, they are. Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die. So goes the poem."

"Then I guess they'll have to be destroyed, won't they, Mr. Frodo?"

"Yes. These, too, were forged by Sauron. In the Mountain. No smithy in Minas Tirith could melt them. They must go to the fire."

"But not with you, surely."

"No, Sam. Not with me. I could not open my hand over the Crack of Doom the first time. I could not do it now either. And I have no heart for a second such journey, even though I could take a host of men with me this time, and wains full of baggage, and even dancing girls if I asked for them. Once the armies of the Easterling king and his former allies clear out of Mordor."

"That's good, Mr. Frodo. This second journey can be for others to take. You deserve to rest."

"Yes. And though I am sure I could not open my hand over the fire, I may be able to open my hand over another hand. As Bilbo did, when he passed the Ring to me. Who then shall go? I cannot entrust these things to Men. The quest of the mountain takes a hobbit. Two hobbits. One touched by the darkness, to bear the ring—rings—and one not. To save him from himself."

Frodo's gaze passed over the assembly and came to rest on Merry and Pippin. Merry and Pippin looked at each other in wide-eyed dread. Frodo walked slowly toward them. As slowly as he had walked toward Chin, and with almost as much menace.

Pippin took a step back as Frodo stopped in front of him. "Uh—I was just leaving," said Pippin.

"There is no other choice," Frodo said. "One of you must take it. Them."

"Give it to Merry!" Pippin squeaked, taking another step back.

"Oh, thank you, Pip!" Merry said, aghast.

"No, it must be Pippin," Frodo said. "The one who stands in the place of Sam must be a true innocent. Pippin, you cannot take that place, for you have seen the Eye. You are like me, now. A little."

Pippin took another step back, and fetched up against Merry's encircling arm. "Don't worry, Pippin. I'll help you," said Merry. It sounded more like a threat than a promise.

"I only saw it for a little while. An hour at most, though I lived a whole lifetime of terror and pain in that vision. And the Palantir was hardly a Ring of Power, much less nine of them. Besides. Wouldn't it be better to give them to someone who has never seen the Eye? Or been seen by it?"

"Hold out your hand, Pippin." Frodo's tone was almost indifferent, but there was a sinister look in his eyes.

Pippin shook his head. "Don't do this to me, Frodo."

"One of you must take it."

Merry took Pippin's right hand in both of his and pried it open. "Merry," Pippin whispered, "what are you doing?"

"Sorry, Pippin," Merry said. His face was grim. "Frodo's the expert on these things. What he says goes." Merry held Pippin's hand out for Frodo. Pippin squeezed his eyes shut, as if bracing for pain.

Frodo set the rings into it, and Merry closed Pippin's hand around them.

"Now get them out of my sight," said Frodo, "before I try to take them back."

"Frodo?" Merry asked, puzzled.

"If Pippin now stands in my place, and you, Merry, stand in Sam's, I know well what role is left for me. Go where I cannot find you. Sam will stay with me and help me through this."

Pippin did not know what he had expected. Cold? Searing heat? Rending pain? They just felt like lumps of metal in his hand, but he did not sigh in relief yet. Because he felt them stirring. Not physically. Physically, they were inert, just circles of gold and jet and obsidian.

Pippin opened his eyes and stared off into space. "I can hear them," he whispered.

"Come on, Pippin," said Merry. "Let's go find a quiet corner of the city." Merry guided Pippin out the door.

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

Nine For Mortal Men part two

Merry steered Pippin into the sunny courtyard. Pippin stopped before the Tree and gazed at it blossoming obliviously. "I won't have it, Merry," Pippin said. He made a sudden gesture toward the fountain, as if to fling the rings from him. But the gesture ended with his fist closed tight around them. He drew back his hand and tried again. "Oh no. It's already started," Pippin breathed. "I can't let go."

Merry patted Pippin's shoulder.

After a moment, Pippin hissed, "Quiet. That's quite enough of that."

Merry said, "I didn't say anything."

"Not you. Them. They're all whispering and whining and shouting and poking each other, clamoring for my attention. They hate being next to each other like this. They're all rivals, you know. Especially the Witch-King's ring, it things it's better than the others. And Mumude thinks Skuryokhav is a, well, not a nice word, and…" Pippin looked at his hand, the rings hidden within it. "Shh! I will not. Oh the great and scary Nazgul whines like a little puppy."

Merry's eyes widened. "You've had those things for what, less than a minute? And you can tell their individual voices apart?"

"Sure. They're all quite different. They sort of sound like the last people to own them, and they were all from different countries."

"Frodo didn't start hearing the Ring's voice for years after he inherited it from Bilbo."

"Frodo hadn't seen the Eye before he started."

A light breeze ruffled the water of the stilled fountain, and a petal floated off the Tree and drifted away. Pippin put the rings in his pocket.

"Pippin, I think we ought to go someplace else, as nice as the courtyard is, Frodo said we should go someplace he won't think to look for us."

"I'm not the right person for this, Merry," Pippin said. "Sauron has been inside my mind. That's why I can hear them. Won't you take them?"

"No," Merry said. "I'd do just about anything for you, Pippin, you know that. You're my closest friend as well as my favorite cousin. But I won't take the rings."

"What if I die? Would you take them if I die?"

"Don't even think about it. No. I'd make Frodo take them back."

"Oh." All the fight seemed to go out of Pippin. He looked down, slouching.

"Come on," Merry said. "What say we find an alehouse?"

Pippin smiled faintly. "Like that's a place Frodo wouldn't look for us."

The two of them walked off into the city.

In the throne room, people began to stir again, and speak softly with one another, generating a hushed susurrus. Gandalf walked over to stand by Frodo. "That was quite a display, Frodo."

"Are you so surprised I would know how to use it?"

"What you are able to do, and what you are willing to do, are different matters."

"Will," Frodo scoffed. "Does it take will to slay a snake that surprises you on the roadside? I responded to danger, nothing more."

Gandalf made a noncommittal noise halfway between oh? And hmmm.

Aragorn said, "It took will to let them go, did it not?"

Frodo shrugged one shoulder.

Aragorn continued, "Gandalf might not have been surprised at the show you put on with Lord Chin, but I certainly was. What you did to him and his men—that's what Chin intended to do to me, isn't it? Control me, I mean."

"It was."

"Then Chin is hoist on his own petard. A sort of poetic justice, I suppose. Though I must say, Frodo: you have become a perilous being."

"That was nothing. Those Men were still new to their rings, not yet as vulnerable as those who have worn them long. I could do the same thing to anyone who wears a Ring of Power. Even Gandalf."

Gandalf said, "I think you overestimate your level of mastery."

"Gandalf, you know better than to call it mastery. I once heard you call yourself 'a servant of the secret fire', the closest you've ever come to admitting you wear one of the Three."

Aragorn's eyebrows climbed. "Do you?" Gandalf nodded. "Why did I not know of this?"

"Because it used to be a secret," Gandalf said, "and afterwards it was irrelevant." Gandalf turned to Frodo. "You are correct, Frodo, mastery is not the right word. Still, the Three are not like the Nine. And I am not like a mortal man. And neither are the keepers of the rings of air and water."

"You don't believe me? Put your hand on my shoulder for a moment, Gandalf."

"Alright," Gandalf said, setting his hand on Frodo's shoulder. "I will indulge this demonstration, just this once, because it will prove me right."

Sam whispered, "Mr. Frodo, sir, begging your pardon, but is this a good idea?"

"It will be fine, Sam," Frodo assured him.

Frodo put his hand over Gandalf's, which put Gandalf's ring under Frodo's hand. Frodo closed his eyes for a few moments. "There," Frodo said. "Done."

Gandalf moved his hand back to his side. "Nothing happened."

"Didn't it?" asked Frodo. "Wait a few minutes and you will see. I never said I was going to try my experiment on you, Gandalf. You did feel me speak to your ring, did you not?"

"I felt it," Gandalf said. "But nothing happened."

"We shall see," Frodo said. "I compelled Chin and his men to walk where I wished, from one of the Nine to the others. So I have done, now, from one of the Three to the others. Just let a little time pass, for them to arrive. A few minutes will do, since they are already in Minas Tirith."

"All the Three are here?" asked Aragorn.

"The other two arrived last month," Frodo said. "With the wedding party."

Aragorn startled and looked over at Arwen.

"No, she doesn't have one," said Frodo. "But if she does not know who does, then surely she suspects. I spoke to you once of Galadriel's ring, Aragorn."

"I remember."

"She could not conceal it from me, for when I reached Lorien I was already much grown in attunement. I had not perceived the other two yet, but it was not hard to guess. Gandalf's power is fire. And have not you and I both seen the River Bruinen rise on command?"

At that moment, Elrond rushed into the room, and halted, staring about. "What has happened? I felt drawn here."

"Now do you see?" Frodo asked, addressing Gandalf.

"You are grown dangerous indeed, Frodo."

Galadriel's light footsteps followed. But where Elrond looked confused, even panicked, Galadriel's fair face was wrathful. "Who dares compel me hither? Not you, Gandalf, though at first I thought I recognized your power."

"No, not I," Gandalf said. "Frodo. And since we are all here now, I think it's time to tell the tale of what just happened, and where the Nine are now bestowed."

"The Nine?" Elrond asked in dismay. "Did they not perish with the Nazgul?"

"They fell from the sky," Frodo said. "I could almost see it, when I put them on. Those last moments when the wraiths tore asunder like old rags, sliding off their mounts. Falling into the dust of Mordor. That was where Chin found them."

"Let us have the round tale," said Aragorn. "Servants! Bring more wine."

Frodo told the story of Chin, and ended with the recent events in the throne room. "And so I passed the Nine to Pippin."

Galadriel asked, "And where are they now? How many guards are detailed for his safety?"

"None," said Aragorn. "Only Merry. Which of my guards could I trust with such a duty? They are all most loyal men, of course, yet they are still Men."

At this there was a murmur in the crowd. The people of Minas Tirith did not like to hear their King put more trust in a pair of foreigners that looked like pageboys than in his own soldiers of Gondor, even if one of them had been sworn to the Tower Guard by the late Lord Denethor.

"I know not if that is wisdom or folly, Aragorn," said Elrond, "but placing our faith in hobbits has not led us wrong yet."

"And I have not forgotten the flower of Minas Tirith," Aragorn said quietly. "Even the man accounted best in his time was undone by the will of the Enemy. How then shall I expect a man at arms to prove the better?"

Gandalf said, "One does not expect 'a' man at arms to do much of anything in the way of guarding such a hazard. Many together can watch each other. Did it not prove so in the Fellowship? Boromir was not sent with Frodo alone. We can all be grateful for that."

"True enough," said Aragorn. "And I suppose I must assign troops and servants to go with them, when it is time for them to set out. But that is a decision for another day. First I must make certain the armies of Chin and his allies have dispersed. I will send messengers behind Chin's retreat, to watch his progress, until he takes the pass from Ithilien. Then Prince Faramir's men can watch him, until he leaves Mordor. Only then will it be safe to send the Nine to the fire."

"A fine strategy," approved Gandalf. "The details you can work out with your captains. For now, I think, I will take my leave. I have much to ponder. Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, will you walk with me in the courtyard?"

"Indeed, Gandalf," said Elrond. "There is much yet on which to think." Elrond glanced at Frodo as he said this, and unconsciously tightened the hand on which he wore the Ring of Water.

Frodo looked away.

Sam said, "And it's time for us to be going, too, I'm thinking, Master. Surely you are weary?"

Frodo smiled a little, the first such expression to cross his face that day. "And each hazard goes away with its keeper."

Sam puzzled that out, and said at length, "Well, if you're up for jesting, Mr. Frodo, things can't be that bad, I suppose." The two of them returned to their rooms.

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

Nine For Mortal Men part three

There had not been any inns in Minas Tirith during the War. Pippin remembered looking for one, and asking after one and being told the city was in a state of austerity to prepare for a siege. And there had in fact been a siege after that, so it was a good thing the people of the city had been provisioned. But there was an inn now. It was called the Scarlet Bull, and was in the lowest level of the city.

The building was of crumbling stone, the tables and benches well-worn wood, and it looked like it had never been closed. At least, Pippin thought, it was hard to believe that level of grime could accumulate in just a couple of months. The benches, naturally, were too high, leaving Merry and Pippin to swing their legs like children, the pottery mugs were browner than the ale, and the table top, level with Pippin's nose, had some pretty rude things carved into it, and of course nobody was singing any Shire drinking songs, but it was an inn, and that was enough. At least, he tried to tell himself that was enough.

Actually, it didn't seem like a very friendly place. Everybody was staring at them. "Merry," Pippin whispered, "I distinctly did not see a No Hobbits sign on the door, did you?"

"Relax, Pippin," Merry said. Then he called to the barkeep, who was staring just as hard as everyone else, "Pints of ale for us, and a round for the house!" Merry winked. "There, that ought to win us some friends, ay Pip?"

Conversations began under the patrons' breaths, not unlike the murmuring in the throne room. The bartender brought over their ales. "Are you really the Prince of the Halflings, here in my humble establishment?"

Pippin relaxed. He hadn't been unwelcome, or mistaken for a child again, after all. He gestured to the skin tight uniform he wore, its silver and sable proclaiming him a member of the Tower Guard. "Considering that people who wear these without permission get executed in this city, I had better be."

The barkeep nodded, "It's an honor, sir. Anything you like, just ask for." The room went back to sounding more like a proper alehouse as the barman started serving the others their various beers.

Merry asked, "They don't really kill people for wearing the wrong thing, do they?"

"Oh yes. It's called 'impersonating an officer', a very serious offence. There are all kinds of things against the law here. It was hard to keep track of all the rules and passwords and so on when I first came here. Things have eased up a lot since the war ended, or maybe it's just that nobody bothers asking me for a password since everybody knows who I am—and who is my patron. Were things simpler among the Rohirrim?"

"Looks like." Merry held up his mug. "To Theoden, who never cared what anybody wore as long as it didn't frighten the horses!"

They drank. Pippin proposed the next toast. "To Aragorn, who never cared what anybody smelled like as long as it wasn't worse than he looked!"

"That's really bad, Pippin," Merry laughed, and drank. "To Frodo, who, um, what?" Merry stopped because Pippin had put down his mug.

"I'm not drinking to Frodo. Or to you either, after you held me for him."

"Sorry, Pippin."

"You're not sorry. You're glad you didn't have to take it yourself. That's why you helped him force me."

"Whoa, Pippin, do you know what that sounds like?"

"Probably about what it felt like."

"Sorry."

"You're not sorry."

"Alright, alright! I'm not sorry, I'm a mean cruel hobbit who enjoys tormenting younger cousins, I'm plotting to get even more sport out of your right now, call me Ugluk why don't you?"

Pippin's mouth quirked. "Yes, Ugluk." Pippin glanced down. "You're right, Durbatu. He doesn't look like an Ugluk. The Uruk-hai are big muscley fellows. Merry looks more like a Snaga, or even a Khorom."

Merry's eyes widened. "Are you talking to—one of THEM?"

"Sure. Why not? They talk to me."

"What are they saying? Besides coming up with appropriate orc names for me."

"Well, if you really want to know. Shann thinks I ought to get very drunk. And I agree with him. To Shann!" Pippin finished off the rest of his mug and motioned for another.

The bartender brought another round for both of them. Pippin said, "Oh, no, now I've done it. I can't pay more attention to one than another. Now I'll have to toast them all."

"Pippin, let's have some caution. We shouldn't ought to get too drunk, it would be a serious problem if we got rolled and robbed."

Pippin snorted. "Not a problem for me." Then his face turned serious. "Unless I started stalking the streets hunting for them like Gollum, that is. I think I need some ale to fortify me against such a horrid thought." He lifted his mug. "First, to Chin. No, I don't think that fits, somehow." Pippin's eyes unfocused as he listened to the rings. "No, you were never Chin's, really, were you? Chin belonged to you. You were a prince and a warlock long ago, your magic was dire and terrifying before you ever put on a ring. That's the personality I sense in you, not Chin's. You're long dead, King of Angmar, but your spirit echoes still within the circle of your ring. You left your impression on it, even more strongly than the maker's mark of Sauron." Pippin looked back at Merry. "To Angmar, then!"

"You're getting scary, Pippin. You toast Angmar, if you like. I'm lifting a mug to Frodo." The two of them drank.

"Next, to Durbatu. Half-orc captain of Barad-dur, dear home of Pipshag the Honorary Orc, from my vision in the Palantir. For the pride of the battalion, then."

"What?" asked Merry.

Pippin drank, then set down his mug and said, "Didn't I tell you I lived a whole lifetime in my vision? The Eye did much more than question me, Merry. He showed me exactly what he was going to do to me when he got me to the Dark Tower. In full sensory detail. Sight, sound, touch. Smell and taste, too. Phleh. Reminds me of orc liquor. And other things. Need to wash the taste away." Pippin drank again. "He showed me how he made orcs out of elves, back in the Elder Days, and how he thought the process would work on a hobbit." Pippin touched his eyebrow. "I never thought I might actually miss my piercings. But I do now. Looked rather rakish, through Durbatu's eyes."

"You never told me that," Merry said.

"I didn't get much of a chance to talk to you, right after. And it just didn't seem the sort of thing I could really tell old Gandalf. Not without him getting all wizardly and demanding more of an accounting than I really wanted to give, anyway, right then. And then things just sort of happened and crowded it out." Pippin looked down. "Next I drink to Yamotaq, great lord from an island so far away it's in the other sea. I can see him clearly in my mind's eye. Rich robes of silk embroidered with birds, an elegant sword the like of which even elves can't make. And yet behind him I can sense another. A shadow form, looming over him like great dark wings." Pippin lifted his mug. "You pick someone to drink to, too, Merry, I don't want to get drunk alone while you sit there being sober and looking frightened. You've made a terrible start as a protector, won't you at least keep me company?"

Merry nodded. "I'll drink to Sam." They drained their mugs, and the barkeep brought another round.

"Skuryokhav," Pippin said. "Skuryokhav's being overwhelmed. I can almost hear the name of the great king of men of long ago that formed the wraith of that ring. Lu something. Ludentay, Ludenmay, Lutenai, Lubenway? I'll think I'll compromise and call you Lusku. How's that?" Pippin paused as if listening. "To Lusku then!" He looked pointedly at Merry as he brought his mug to his lips.

"Um, alright, to, uh, to Boromir! If you're going to toast all the Nine rings, then I'm going to toast all nine members of the Fellowship." They drank.

"To Mumude! He could almost have been a hobbit in his enthusiasm for good food and good cheer. He likes this game we're playing very well. I can see lines of fire down my arms where his tattoos would have been. Oliphaunts and geometric designs and strange letters of the Haradric language, I can hear the drums and see the bright skirts of the women as they danced at his farewell feast. He had three wives. Their hair was done up in pink and red scarves. The real Mumude, the man, he's going back to them, you know. Back home. Maybe to find a new baby or two born while he was off campaigning. But he left such an imprint on this ring, it'll still be singing his tune long after he turns to dust. Unless I destroy it, of course. How could I do such a thing?"

"You better hope you can, Pippin."

"None of that, now. Make a toast."

"To Gandalf." The level of ale in their tankards was dropping fast.

"The Rhovanian lord, Hodur. He didn't really cast much of a shadow at all. The wraith is much stronger. He was a powerful king in his time. You know, as I get drunker I think I can see them better. And hear. His name was—Arzim something. Arzim ra.. torn? Thorn? Thon! That was it. Arzimrathon. Good heavens, Merry, I think he was one of Aragorn's ancestors. Or at least a cousin of some kind, like you and me."

Pippin gestured at Merry, and Merry picked someone to toast. "To Legolas!" They finished their ales and called for more.

"And finally Tarondor. The pirate. He and Arzimrathon have a lot in common. Both of Numenorean stock. Both loved sailing. Both got too big for their britches and ended up enslaved when they thought they were making themselves more powerful. Foolish men, to take a ring willingly into their hands! A! Poor Tarondor! Banished from Umbar for murdering a member of the royal house, when all he thought he was doing was having a nice little happy barfight. Over a whore, as it happened. And an unpaid bill of two half silvers and a piece of eight."

"To Gimli!" Merry said, and guzzled a good half of his pint.

But Pippin was lost in the ring's memory. "Her necklace broke. The lady of uncertain virtue. She had a pearl necklace. The drunk who was tug-of-warring over her with Tarondor pulled her necklace and the pearls spilled all over the floor. He slipped and cracked his head on the table edge, and he didn't get up again. Tarondor thought nothing of it. He was with the woman—she had red hair, but it wasn't natural—when the stranger's thugs caught up with him. Didn't know the man was dead, and didn't know whom he'd killed. All his life overturned in one moment of bad luck. Started over as a highwayman based in Rhovanian. Raided small settledments in the wastes at first, then grew bolder, raiding Rohan and Gondor, even Mordor after the War ended. Which brought him the attention of Lord Chin, and Angmar." Pippin stared at the table for a few moments, then downed the rest of his ale.

Merry looked at the remaining half pint in his fourth ale, and said, "I haven't raised a toast to you yet, Pippin. To your health! And may you come out of this unshaved. Uh, unshkathed." Merry blinked and tried again, enunciating carefully. "Unscathed." Merry finished off his pint.

Pippin gestured the barman over again, but Merry said, "No more, Pip, we've had four pints each, in less than an hour. We'll never make it back to our rooms in the third level if we keep this up."

"We can't go back to our rooms," Pippin said. "Frodo will be there."

The barkeep offered, "We've rooms here, if you two don't mind sharing one. The other three are full."

"That would be most ekshe, ekshke, excellent," slurred Merry. "Is it upshtairs or down?"

"Upstairs, good perian, but never fear. Getting patrons to their rooms when they can't walk is all part of the service. More ale?"

Pippin hiccupped. "Indeed yes. Let us drown our shorrows, and all tomorrowsh, how did that go?" Pippin started singing, trying to recall the lines of a favorite Tuckburrough drinking song. It came out rather less than perfect.

"And food," added Merry.

"And a pitcher," said Pippin.

Uncounted ales later, Merry and Pippin somehow made it to their room and collapsed in a heap on the man-high bed. Merry started snoring immediately, but Pippin found he was suddenly wide awake. The room was spinning, and he could have sworn he felt the waves of the Bay of Belfalas rocking the floorboards of his corsair dromond, but he could also see nine shadowy forms looming over him.

"What are you doing here?" Pippin whispered. "You're dead. Gone. You can't be here. You're all in my head. Or in my pocket."

The forms advanced. They were no longer cloaked in darkness, but glowed with a sickly blue phosphorescence, like corrupted moonlight. Their faces wavered, as if reflected in water. Their swords were pointed at his heart. Pippin tried to scream, to wake up Merry, but it came out a pitiful little squeak. The points of the swords pierced his flesh. It didn't hurt. The swords dissolved into mist, passing through him. The ghostly hands passed through him too, insubstantial. The wraiths fell into him with a hissing sound, crumpling up on themselves and coming to rest just under his skin, like armor.

"I'm dreaming," he told himself. "It's just a nightmare."

Then he saw Mumude. The Haradrim warrior was wearing ivory and gold and rich red cloth. "They'll try to take me away from you," Mumude said. He was speaking a foreign language. Haradric? The Black Speech of Mordor? But Pippin understood him. "They'll take all the rings away from you, but you only need one. You only need me. You know what you have to do. You know how to keep me away from them. They can't take me away if I'm inside you. Yes, your own idea. You came up with it all by yourself. You remember my memories, but I recall yours too. I know what you told Sauron when he asked you, Where is the Ring?"

"I was a fool of a Took. That's what Gandalf always says and he was right."

"No, you were brilliant! Look how well it turned out."

"Not so well for you. Your Master is dead, the Dark Tower is fallen. You are dead too, wraith. You speak to me in the form of a man, but I know it's only an echo."

Mumude smiled. "Even so. How glorious, how incandescent you were in that moment when you said to Sauron, 'I swallowed it'."

"If you have my memories, then you know what came after. How he looked for it. How he could have gotten it out of me, if I had really been there in the Tower, and if I had really had the Ring. Without killing me, without spoiling his fun by letting me die too soon."

"A! But that was Sauron. And the One Ring. Nobody will take me from you with such effort if you only eat me, and leave the others in your pocket. If they can have the other eight so easily, why bother with such techniques?"

"Somebody might. Or they might just kill me to open my gut."

"Then I'll be with you forever. No one will ever be able to take me from you, once your wraith rises."

"No!!!" Pippin came awake screaming. He sat up on the bed, panting in fear. "So it was just a dream after all."

Merry bolted upright in the bed at the sound of the scream, rubbing his eyes. Then he helpfully bent over the side and was sick on the floor.

Pippin saw his hand creep toward his pocket of its own accord. He stared in horror as his hand withdrew the ring of Mumude and started toward his mouth.

"Merry! Merry, help me!"

Blearily, Merry crawled over to Pippin. "What?"

"Hold my hand, Merry! I can't stop it!"

Merry grabbed Pippin's arms. "What'sh going on?" Merry asked.

"I have the most awful urge, and I can't stop," Pippin whispered.

"To put the ring on?" Merry asked.

"To eat it."

Merry blinked. "I mushht be drunker than I thought. I thought I heard you shay you're going to eat the ring. Now, eating ish a very goodly hobbitlike purshooot. But let's shtick to mushroomsh."

Merry's eyes closed, and his hands went slack against Pippin's arms. The hand with Mumude's ring started moving again.

"Merry! Wake up! Help me!" Pippin shrieked in panic.

Merry woke up again, grabbed for Pippin's hand, missed, and mumbled, "Love you Pip. You're my favorite coush—choush—coushin. Well, after your shishter."

Pippin couldn't control his right hand. The ring moved closer to his face. But he found his left hand still worked fine, and he slapped Merry hard across the face. "Wake up!"

Merry's eyes opened. He seized Pippin's wrists. "Thish ish no good, Pippin. Can't keep awake. Got to proteck you shomehow." Merry looked about the room. "I know! Shushpendersh!" Merry transferred both Pippin's wrists to one of his hands, then started fumbling with his suspenders.

"Merry," whispered Pippin. "What in Middle Earth are you doing?"

"I think pretty quick even when I'm shtinkin drunk," Merry congratulated himself. He got his suspenders off. "Flip, Pip," Merry ordered. Then he giggled. "I'm a poet, don't I know it!"

"Merry!" Pippin protested. "Are you daft as well as drunk? I'm your cousin!"

"Never fear, coushin Merry is here! Hic!" Merry let go of Pippin's hands and the ring shot toward Pippin's face. Then a loop of suspender went over Pippin's wrist. Merry snapped in a knot, hard. Pippin twigged to what Merry intended. Merry pulled the hand with the ring in it behind Pippin. "Gimme your other hand, now, that'sh a good Pippin." Merry bound Pippin's hands behind him.

"Ow! Not to so tight, Merry!"

"All right and tight, shafe and shound," Merry singsonged.

"Damn, Merry, the Uruk-hai's knots were looser than this!"

"You got out of the Uru- Urukeye, Uruk-hai'sh knotsh, Pip." Merry sighed and closed his eyes. "Nighty-night, coushin." He was asleep before his head hit the sheet.

End of Part Three


	4. Chapter 4

Nine For Mortal Men Part Four

Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel stood at the brink of the courtyard, looking down over the city and fields below. "I am deeply disturbed by Frodo's display just now," Gandalf said, leaning on the white wall.

"How did he come to use your ring, Gandalf?" Galadriel asked. "Surely you did not lend it to him."

"He placed his hand over mine. He used it while I yet wore it. That is what is so unsettling. He should not have been able to do that."

"Not without the One," Elrond said.

"Precisely," said Gandalf. "Only the power of the Ruling Ring can subdue the other rings, or so we have long believed."

"Or one whose mind has grown to the shape of the One?" Galadriel asked.

"Frodo is wounded in soul, certainly, but that should make him weaker, not stronger."

Galadriel shook her head sadly. Her golden hair rippled with the motion. "Weaker in his attachment to Middle-Earth. Weaker is his essential hobbit-ness. Less bound to his mortal form. Like a Nazgul—or like you, Mithrandir. Olorin. For I too come out of the West. I have not seen your true form, but I know what it must be."

"I noticed a transparency about him when first I saw him," said Elrond. "The Morgul splinter very nearly turned him, Gandalf, and that was near the beginning of his quest. He has grown subtler since then."

"Subtle, yes. I think that you are right, both of you. The coarse matter of his form is a suit he wears uncomfortably now."

"What are we to do?" Elrond asked. "I would heal him, if I could. But reattaching a subtle form to the earthly plane is beyond my power, and I am not certain it would be right so do so even if I could."

"No, I do not think that would be wise," Gandalf said. He turned from the view of the city to face the elves. "He cannot become what he was. There are only two ways now that his mortal life can end: in the shadow, or in the light. It was the shadow world that hollowed him out, but he resisted to his last strength, and so remained this side of evil. I think that he could become like you, Galadriel, or like Glorfindel. Like any of the Eldar who have walked on the other side. If we take him there."

"Take Frodo into the West?" asked Elrond.

"And Bilbo too," Gandalf said. "Perhaps Sam as well. All those who have been touched by the One."

"And Pippin, if he survives this trial?" asked Elrond.

"No, not Pippin. The Nine are not the same."

"He is already going hollow, Gandalf. I have not seen him since he took the rings, but I can feel his presence in the city. Can you not?"

"Nay, Lord Elrond, for you are a healer and your power is over water; you feel the dissolution of his mortal blood. The process of translucency."

"Perhaps. He too will become subtle, in time. It has already begun."

"We have only three places to fill," Gandalf said.

Elrond's eyes widened. "No," he breathed, aghast. "You can't mean that." Elrond turned to Galadriel. "You came from the West. Tell me there are not a limited number of places for the return journey."

"There are, and are not," Galadriel said.

Elrond sighed. "It is for such answers that we elves are renowned as poor givers of advice. Will you not speak more clearly? For I have both the need and the right."

"All those who came from the West can return, for the time of Exile is over. And all Elves born in Middle-Earth generate their own places, by the act of being born."

Elrond's lips thinned. "So there are exactly as many places as there are elves born."

"That is so," said Galadriel.

"And the only way to open a place for Frodo is for one to stay behind."

"No, it is more than that. For as long as an elf remains an elf, he has a place on a ship."

Elrond looked down. "You are saying the only way to open a place is for an elf to choose mortality."

"It is the way the world is made, Elrond. We cannot change it."

"And only those with mortal blood can choose mortality," Elrond sighed. "That I knew already."

"Also, as you know," said Gandalf, "those slain in battle or who fall by some mischance go also thence, to the Halls of Mandos, and do not open a seat."

"Then there are four places," Elrond said. "You have not counted mine."

"Your place can no longer be given," Galadriel said gently. "Your choice was made long ago."

"As was my brother's," said Elrond. "Then there are still four. Elros's place is open."

Gandalf said, "I believe you are right. There are two open places, of a certainty. And possibly two more."

"Would you have all my children remain, while I take the ship into the West?"

"It is not what I would have," Gandalf said, "but what they choose, that matters."

"I have already lost Arwen to that choice. I would have Elladan and Elrohir come with me. Or at least, choose with their hearts. I would not have them sacrifice themselves."

"They need not be told about the places on the ship," Gandalf said. "I too would have them choose freely."

Elrond sighed. "Galadriel? Will you keep this close, until your grandchildren have made their choices?"

She nodded. "There is time yet. For Sam at least, and possibly for Pippin, if he does not become a wraith in the next moon's time. Two places only are required, for those who will come with us three, when we sail. Bilbo is old, very old in the reckoning of his kind, and Frodo, very damaged. They will not last many more years. But the other two are young."

Elrond nodded. "I think I will tell Arwen, though. Since her choice is already made. She may wish to tell Frodo about his place on the ship herself. It is her gift to give, though it flows from her heart's desire."

The three left the courtyard, and went down into the city.


	5. Chapter 5

Nine For Mortal Men Part Five

Pippin woke up slowly. He was aware of a gritty feeling in his eyes, a painful burning sensation in his wrists, a churning in his stomach, a need to relieve himself, and most of all, a feeling that his head had swollen so much he had finally proved that it is true what Sam's old gaffer always said, 'you are what you eat', and Pippin had turned into a mushroom.

"I think he's awake," someone whispered.

"Shh! Not quite."

"Put me on."

"No, me! Put me on first!"

Pippin opened his eyes. The only other person in the room was Merry, who was still sleeping where he had fallen, across the bed on top of the blanket.

"You can reach me," said Mumude. "I fell out of your hand when you fell asleep. I'm right here, the only one you can choose. The others are still in your pocket."

"Go away, Mumude," said Pippin. "After what you pulled, you can't imagine you would be the favored one."

"But it was fun before that Haradrim showed up and spoiled things, wasn't it?" asked Shann.

Pippin tried to sit up and groaned. "Fun? That's the last time I listen to you, Shann. Getting very drunk was a terrible idea."

"What about me?" asked a new voice.

Pippin startled, and looked around the room. "Frodo?"

"It's me, over here in your pocket."

"Why do you sound like Frodo all of a sudden?"

Beside him, Merry stirred and mumbled something incoherent.

"It's not all of a sudden. I haven't said anything before. I thought I was being patient. I thought you'd get around to me eventually. You only made eight toasts."

"I did? Oh no, you're right! I left someone out!"

Merry opened his eyes. "Who are you talking to, Pippin?"

"Quick, get the innkeeper. I have to make another toast right now!"

"Are you mad? What time is it?"

"Don't know. Early. Late. Daytime, in any case. I left one of them out, Merry. I'll never hear the end of it if I don't include the ninth ring."

"Who did you leave out?"

"I don't know his right name," Pippin hedged.

"Then how can you make a toast to him?" asked Merry.

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that. Well, as soon as I find out, then," said Pippin. "Um, Merry, could you untie me please? I need to go water a tree."

"Untie you?!"

"Don't say it like you wouldn't even consider it! The fit has passed, I'm fine now. I think Shann knew that getting drunk would make it easier for them to control me. But I'll be alright now."

"When did you get tied up?" Merry asked.

"Oh. You don't remember?"

"I don't remember much of anything after the second pitcher."

"Oh. Well. Ah. Never mind how it got that way, just please unbind my hands."

Merry rubbed his eyes and crawled around Pippin. "Are those my suspenders?"

"No, they belong to the dragon Smaug, just get them off me would you?"

"Your hands have turned purple."

"I told you it was too tight."

"Hold still, Pippin."

"I am still. It's the room that's moving."

"I can't get this knot."

"It's your knot. Oh, and be careful, Merry, Mumude slipped out of my hand somewhere in the bed. Be wary not to put your hand down on him."

"Wonderful. How did I get this knot like this? And who was in here last night? I remember hearing someone speaking."

"Oh, that was just the barman, coming to check on us after I screamed. He didn't actually come in, just knocked on the door. I told him I had a nightmare."

"You screamed?"

"You really don't remember anything?"

"Only that I drank too much. This has got to be the worst hangover in Middle Earth."

"No worse than mine, I'm sure," said Pippin. "I am never, ever taking Shann's advice on how to have a good time again. Miserable trickster. No wonder they all hate you so much. Or did Mumude put you up to this?"

Finally Merry got the knot undone, and Pippin huffed in relief as he brought his stiff arms around in front of him. The bindings had mostly gone over the sleeve of his uniform, but his lower wrists had the texture of the suspenders imprinted on them, and in places were bruised and abraded. Pippin rubbed his wrists and shook life into his hands.

Merry carefully slid off the bed and explored the room. "I don't suppose they would have a comb around here."

"A comb would not be my first choice of amenity," said Pippin, also getting out of bed. He looked underneath it to see if there was a chamber pot.

"Well, I have to look presentable, after all. Someone around here must."

"You look utterly ravishing," Pippin said. "Hardly surprising, since I feel utterly ravished." Pippin paused. "On second thought, that's not so funny."

Merry turned, eyes wide. "I didn't—do anything, did I?"

Pippin considered several answers. 'You mean besides help Frodo stick nine men into me?' was the one he was most tempted to say. But Merry really didn't understand what he had done, Pippin was sure. No, it really wasn't fair to blame Merry. They had all come along on this journey to help Frodo, after all. "Oh, nothing bizarre," he tossed off lightly. "Now, I am going in search of a privy. No, wait, I'd better find Mumude first. That would be a rude shock for the poor chambermaid."

Pippin shuddered as he picked up the Mumude ring. This one was of silver, set with a small many-sided black stone. There was a hint of an old, worn-down relief pattern around the band. Pippin wondered if it were words, or only decoration. He realized he was staring, and quickly stuck it back in his pocket. He heard a chorus of muttering and grumbling as the others grudgingly made room for Mumude.

"Hush, all of you," Pippin said. "I'll find a better place to keep you soon, I promise. How about a nice pouch with individual compartments? I don't think it would be too hard to have one made. May take some time though, so you'll all just have to be patient."

Merry asked, "Pippin, are you actually negotiating with them?"

Pippin shrugged. "Got to have some peace and quiet sometimes."

"Frodo didn't deteriorate this far this fast."

"I'm not Frodo. One of them is."

"What?"

"The ninth ring. The last person to use it was Frodo. I can sort of see the wraith behind him, just a hint of bright hair, dust kicked up by horse's hooves. I think he might have been Rohirric, or an ancestor of the Rohirrim maybe. But I can't quite hear his name."

Pippin left the room. There was indeed a privy at the end of the hall. When he came back to the room, Merry was gone. Finding himself alone, Pippin dug the rings out of his pocket and lined them up on the windowsill. He had not really looked at them before. They all had black stones. Some were gold, some silver, and some were something else. Pippin didn't know enough about metals to tell whether he was looking at platinum, or white gold. One of them might be mithril, he thought. The stones were of various sizes, various cuts. Mostly jet and obsidian, he thought, but one of them had a hint of red to it, like orc blood, a very dark garnet perhaps. That was the ring of Arzimrathon. It didn't look evil at all, really. Most of the Nine were plain, other than the stones. The Witch-King's was decorated with a skull pattern. The ninth ring had a small triangular stone set flush with the metal. Pippin picked it up.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What is your name? Your ancient name? I'm not going to call you Frodo, despite how strongly his personality and voice resound in you."

"I'm not strong enough to get past the hobbit," said Frodo's voice. And yet not his voice—now, it sounded deeper, harsher, more like a voice of the race of Men. "He burned with a terrible fire. He was like our Master. Like the Eye. But I am trying my best to get through. It would be easier to talk to you if you would put me on."

"Oh—sure." Pippin slipped the ring on without a second thought.

Immediately he was aware of forms becoming less solid. Everything around him whipped in an unseen wind. Even the prosaic bed and window seemed full of dark menace. He saw a wavering phantasm before him.

"Am I in the shadow world?" asked Pippin.

"Yes," said the voice, and now it was indeed the voice of a Man. Details became clearer to Pippin's eye. The man wore skins and furs, and only the very crudest of woven cloth, and yet was crowned with gold. A horsehair braid with gold and jewels for beads served him for a belt, and Pippin knew he was an ancient king of the forefathers of the Rohirrim, before they came down out of the North and made alliance with Gondor.

"What is your name?" Pippin asked.

"Niflo."

Then there was a knock at the door, and Pippin guiltily took off the ring, and swept all the rings up and put them back in his pocket. "Who's there?"

"Strider."

"Really?" Pippin asked. "Say something Striderish, and I'll believe you."

"I don't know how to imitate myself. What if I say something Gandalfish instead? Open this door, you fool of a Took."

Pippin opened the door. Aragorn was dressed in his old travel stained Ranger clothes again, cloaked and hooded as if to pass anonymously. "Well, will you look at you," Pippin said. "It really is Strider again. Come in."

Aragorn shut the door behind him. "Where's Merry? He's supposed to be keeping you out of trouble."

"He was. Very painfully." Pippin displayed his wrists. "Maybe he went to see about breakfast."

Aragorn's jaw dropped. He took Pippins hands and looked closely at the marks. "Merry bound you?"

"I'm fine. Well, no, I'm not fine, I feel like the whole army of Saruman has been marching on my tongue, but that's my own fault. Or Shann's, maybe."

"I thought as much, when I heard where you two had been seen. My courtiers have sources of gossip in the oddest places. So I brought you this." Aragorn produced a phial. "Strider's Infamous Hangover Remedy. Drink it all, there's one for Merry too."

Pippin gratefully downed the phial. "Faugh. Tastes like the bark of a tree."

"It is."

"Do you really think nobody's going to recognize you without your king suit?"

Aragorn smiled. "I'm sure some of the people I passed on the way here realized who I am, but you would be surprised how many folk do not look twice at a scruffy fellow in an old cloak."

Just then the door opened, and Aragorn melted back into the shadow of the door, following an old reflex. Merry and the innkeeper brought in a small table, two stools, bowls, platters, and a rather less substantial breakfast than was customary for hobbits, but then, Pippin thought, he wasn't completely recovered from the previous night's labors yet, so it was just as well.

When the innkeeper left, Merry sat down and tucked in at once. "Have some bread, Pippin, it's hot."

"I believe I will," said Pippin. "Join us, if you like."

Merry said, "Now that's going too far, Pippin. Talking to the rings is one thing, but you can't seriously expect them to sit down to table with you."

Aragorn cleared his throat. Merry whirled around and drew his sword.

"Peace, Merry."

"Aragorn?"

Aragorn pulled back his hood, and offered Merry the second phial. "Good for what ales you."

Pippin nodded encouragement, and Merry sheathed his sword and accepted the bottle.

"How's Frodo doing?" Merry asked.

"Well enough. I looked in on them earlier this morning. Not hung over, so, doing better than you two, it would seem."

Merry said, "I'd really like to talk with Sam. Compare notes, you know."

"That can be arranged. I could stay here with Pippin while you go speak with them."

Merry nodded. "If you don't have some important kingly thing that needs doing."

"What could be more important than safeguarding the Nine Rings of Men?"

Pippin said, "How about not leaving a King of Men alone with their keeper? No offence, Aragorn."

"What, do I suddenly look like a scoundrel again? No, Pippin, I'm not offended. But you are being inconsistent. If you did not trust me, you should not have drunk the phial I handed you, which you already knew to be a drug of some kind."

"Yes, alright, you're right of course, Strider, and there are few people I trust more. But until yesterday, Frodo would have been at the top of the list."

"The top?!" Merry asked indignantly. "What about me?"

"Fine. You, then Frodo. And the rest of the Fellowship. But today I don't trust anybody, and myself least of all. If you hadn't been here with me last night, Merry, I would already have been undone. Wait, Aragorn—you said you heard where we'd gone from court gossip. That means Frodo could find me as well."

Aragorn nodded. "Possibly."

"Then we had better find another hiding place," Pippin said.

Merry asked, "Where can two hobbits go in Minas Tirith and be inconspicuous? Though the uniform doesn't help, Pippin."

"He's right, Pippin. In the right attire, you two could pass as boys."

"That lets out hiding in another alehouse," said Merry.

"Just as well," said Pippin. "No more nights like last night," he said firmly. "As you are the master of disguise, man of many names, suppose you pick a hideout for us."

"I shall give it some thought," Aragorn promised.

"Before we leave this tavern," Pippin said, "I really must raise a toast to Niflo. I promised, after all. And I can't leave one out."

"Who's Niflo?" asked Aragorn.

"Long story," said Pippin. "One for the road?"

"Hair of the dog, more like," said Merry. "But if you really want one, I'll bring you up a half pint before I go."

"I think we ought to move before you go off to talk with Sam. You'll distract him, and Frodo might slip away."

"Frodo's really got you spooked, hasn't he?" asked Merry.

"Oh Merry, you have no idea. He's got me wraithed, is what he's got me. He's made himself a companion, is what."

"I don't follow you," said Merry.

"Well, I don't know if I should believe what I'm hearing, of course. After all, he is a Black Rider. But Arzimrathon says even if I destroy the Nine, I've already got one foot in the shadow world now. I'm going to become a Ringwraith, Merry. And so is Frodo. And he knows it."

"What?" asked Merry and Aragorn together.

"Yes, he knows," Pippin said. "He's got to know. And who can blame him, really, for being afraid of being alone in the void? Now he's got a companion, so he won't have to haunt down the ages all alone. I suppose he must love Sam too much to do it to him. So he did it to me instead."

No one spoke for a while. Pippin munched on a piece of bread.

Quietly, Aragorn commented, "Arzimrathon was the name of one of the Kings of Numenor. One of the later Kings, who was full of arrogance, and turned away from the wisdom of the elves."

"Yes," said Pippin. "He had dark hair and sea colored eyes, just like you, Aragorn. But he would not have been caught dead dressing like Strider. Caught undead wearing naught but a black cloak, yes. Have you ever wondered how a ghost can hold a sword and ride a horse?"

"No, actually, I had not wondered. I have not studied the ways of magic, except for the healer's art."

"Well, I'm not sure either, really. I bet Angmar knows. But he's not telling. At least, he's not telling you. I think he hates you even more than he hates Arzimrathon, if that's possible."

"I'm not surprised. The Witch-King of Angmar destroyed the North Kingdom, Pippin. Defeated Arnor's armies, burned its cities to the ground, slaughtered its people. Destroyed the palace I should have been born in." Aragorn paused, lost in thought for a moment. "Broke up the Kingdom into competing principalities, who destroyed each other in time. Until all that was left of the North Kingdom were homeless wanderers and a few farming villages of thatched huts. And yet here I am. King of Gondor, and of Arnor as well, when I take it back. The line of Elendil restored."

"Not you too," said Merry. "It's bad enough Pippin talks about those things as if they were people. They're objects. Jewelry, for pity's sake."

"Much more than that, I'm afraid," said Aragorn. "If Pippin says they have voices, I believe him. Which one is Arzimrathon? Which one is the King of Numenor?"

"The one with the garnet," said Pippin.

"Oh? I thought they were all black stones. Are you sure it is a garnet? Let me see."

Pippin moved his hand without thought, but Merry slapped his arm. "Pippin! Don't show him!"

"Just idle curiosity," said Aragorn. "About Numenor, not about the Rings of Power."

"Pippin was right," Merry said. "There's no way I'm leaving you alone with him. Not that I could do much, I suppose. But it's the principle of the thing."

"Merry, it's me. I did not want the One, why would I want one of the Nine?"

Merry didn't answer. Pippin said, "The lure of Numenor is the way they would trap you, Aragorn. Arzimrathon is already trying to whisper to you, seeing his chance to find his way to a King of Men again. I can hear him speaking of the sea. Of ships and navies and the storming of the far shores. Of what it was like to live within sight of the Blessed Realm. And yet never to be allowed to touch it. How the reward of the island in the sea became a torment. How he raged against those who tantalized him and called the torture a gift. How his wraith fled the whelming wave that sunk Atalante."

Aragorn looked away. "All this brings us no closer to finding you a safe place to be until it is time to set out. We need not find perfection at once. For now, perhaps you should simply take over one of the abandoned houses. You can always move again later, when we think of something more elaborate."

"But first, I must make my toast to Niflo," said Pippin. "Let's go down into the common room."

Aragorn raised his hood and pulled it far down over his face until just the beard showed. "Let us go."


	6. Chapter 6

Nine For Mortal Men Part Six

They moved into an abandoned house in the sixth level of the city. It was made of stone, had two stories, an overgrown garden, not much in the way of unrotted furniture, and a cellar. Most importantly, it had boarded up windows and a side entrance behind a fence. Merry went off to talk to Sam, feeling less worried because Gimli and Legolas were with Strider and Pippin, and it was almost like having the Fellowship again.

Merry found Frodo and Sam in the house that the four hobbits had shared. Frodo was sitting in a chair, propped up on cushions, looking out the window at a small flower garden. Sam was busying himself with a pot of something over the fire in the fireplace.

"Hullo Sam," said Merry.

"Mr. Merry. Would you care to sit?" Sam gestured to the next room.

"In a moment. Frodo? Hello?"

Frodo did not stir.

"He can hear you," said Sam. "He's just a little sleepy."

"I see." He let Sam lead him into the next room, to a pair of chairs on the far side. "Can he hear us from here?"

"Maybe not, if we keep our voices low. How are you and Mr. Pippin doing?"

"Pippin scares me, Sam. How long did it take Frodo to start talking to the Ring like he was holding a conversation with it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, giving it a name, acting like it was a person."

"Frodo never did that, Merry. That was Gollum."

Merry let the silence drag on. Finally he asked, "What's wrong with Frodo, really?"

"One of Strider's potions. Mr. Frodo was getting a bit agitated, you understand."

"You mean Aragorn drugged him? And you let him?"

"It's not like he meant any harm," Sam said. "Frodo wasn't getting any sleep. He couldn't stay still. Ants in the pants, like. He tried to go to sleep last night, tossed and turned a while, then gave up. He paced, but that wasn't enough. He started running, the way he was pacing, from one end of the room to another, turning and going back again, just like pacing only fast. He kept it up for hours. He was gasping for breath and running about like a mad thing. I couldn't stand it, watching him like that. Around dawn I popped outside and sent the guardsman for a healer. I wasn't expecting Strider to come himself, not at that hour, but he did, and with just the thing too."

"And Frodo's been like that ever since?"

"Well, he actually slept a while first, about an hour or so. I admit it's a bit odd to see him just sit and stare like that, but he needed to rest."

"Did he say anything? While he was running, I mean."

"Not a word. But I can guess what's running through his mind. Somewhere inside he thinks he's chasing the Ring."

"Rings," Merry corrected.

"No, the Ring. When Frodo talks about the thing he put in Pippin's hand, he never says 'they', always 'it'. In his mind, it's the Ring. Poor Mr. Frodo. Gandalf's worried about him, too. He tried to sound reassuring when he stopped by just now, but I could tell."

"Sam," Merry began. "Towards the end, did Frodo ever try to do anything peculiar? With the Ring, I mean."

"Peculiar how?"

"Oh, just peculiar."

"He'd pet it sometimes, like a cat. Gaze at it. Hold it, like it was going to fall off its chain. Check on it a lot. And then of course he used it in the fight against Gollum. Why? What is Pippin doing that's so peculiar?"

"Well, you must understand, Sam, we both got very drunk last night. It was my fault, I thought going to an inn would cheer him up."

"Oh, well," Sam waved a dismissive hand. "Can't blame the Ring for acting stupid when you're drunk."

"I guess not. Thanks, Sam."

What Merry did not know what that Pippin started exploring the house as soon as Merry left, while the Elf, the Man, and the Dwarf set up a sitting room with all the decent furniture from the various rooms. Although hobbits generally disliked stairs, Pippin went through the upper story, and got his friends to help him drag down the one good mattress into a side room on the first floor. Then Pippin went down into the cellar, and that was when his resolve not to repeat the previous night in the alehouse evaporated. Because in the cellar, there was a cask of wine. A very old cask of wine. Covered with dust, in fact.

Soon the four friends were imbibing the excellent vintage. After a few glasses, Aragorn said, "And here I thought I was bringing you here to keep you safe, Pippin. Ah well. Legolas here will not get drunk. Elves do not get drunk, you know. So we have a watchman after all. Good Legolas, will you see that no harm comes to your friends this night?"

"I will," he replied. "To your health!"

After a few more glasses, Pippin started singing:

Drink up my friends and let us sing

Oh Mumude is a tasty ring!

When Tarondor sails, whether east or west,

You'd better lock your treasure chest.

Lusku marches night or dawn

As long as he's not next to Shann.

Witch-King of Angmar long ago,

Arzimrathon's his deadly foe.

Yamotaq and Chin himself,

Their people fight like dwarves and elves.

Shann hates Angmar, and Mumude

Thinks Durbatu's a little fay.

Half-orc Durbatu hates them all

And they look down on him withal.

Tarondor despises Shann

And they both hate Arzimrathon.

Yamotaq thinks it isn't fair

He's gotta share a pocket with a low corsair.

Angmar even hates his own successor,

'Cause Chin's not worthy of the witch professor.

Arzimrathon thinks Tarondor's dame

Was uppish indeed to give him that name.

Tarondor just wants to go home

But can't because he's cursed to roam.

Hodur's plain tired, and Numenor's king

Bemoans his binding into his Ring.

But all this pales when set beside

He who is feared, hated, decried,

By all of them, even Niflo,

Who had it first: and that's Frodo.

Niflo was a riding lord,

A horseman with a mighty horde,

But he is driven down dark and still,

By the hobbit's fiery will.

For though the time of Sauron's done,

Frodo's still here, and he IS the One.

There was a little clapping from Gimli, who proceeded to sing something in Khazad.

"Translate that for us, Gimli," Legolas asked.

"No, no, I couldn't," said Gimli, "It's about Dwarf women."

Aragorn asked, "Pippin, was that just to fit the line, or is there really something left of the Ring in Frodo?"

"More than just something," said Pippin. "You saw what he did to those men. And I can feel what it was like from their side. Now that I've had these accursed things long enough to know their names, Frodo could do that to me now."

"If he had a ring on. He'd have to find you first to get one," said Aragorn.

"How long do you think it will be before Merry and I can set out for the Mountain?"

"A few days at least. Probably several weeks. Armies don't clear off in a day, even when their leaders are under a spell of haste."

"I never thought I'd be anxious to go to Mordor. But this waiting is hard."

"At least we have found something to help pass the time," Aragorn said, taking another sip of wine.

Pippin smiled. "Indeed yes. But don't let me get drunk. Not really snockered like last night, anyway. When I lose control of myself, They are there. To pick up the slack."

Pippin could sense them hovering, a watchful darkness of flapping wings. Waiting for him to slip up, to let one of them ride him.

"Put me on," said Shann. "I'm just a fun loving old drunk like you, let's have some wine together."

"Put me on," said Tarondor, "I'll tell you some great traveler's tales about the life of a pirate."

"Put me on," said Lusku. "You put on Niflo. Now you have to put us all on, one by one, just like you toasted us all."

"No, not one by one," said Yamotaq. "All together. The way Frodo wore us. You could turn invisible. Frodo would never find you. He couldn't take you away from us. I mean take US away from YOU, of course."

"Put me on," said Angmar, and his voice was like the grating of bones. "Not for any reason. Just put me on, because I command it. Halfling."

"Put me on," said Durbatu. "I know somewhere inside you still lurks Pipshag the Honorary Orc. I know you still yearn for Barad-dur. For your comrades, and your drills, and the plunder of Gondor promised you. And yes, even for the whips. For a life contained within orders and walls, where you never have to think again, or wonder who you can trust. Where you never have to hide, except from the sergeant when he's looking for volunteers."

"Hush, Durbatu," said Pippin aloud. "I have no such desire. You may keep the Dark Tower and all it contains."

The Elf, the Man, and Dwarf stared at him. Pippin drank more wine.


	7. Chapter 7

Nine For Mortal Men Part Seven

Pippin did not like the way the others were staring, so he reached inside himself—or inside the Nine, it was increasingly hard to tell it apart—and started singing a rather bawdy Corsair sea chantey. To his surprise, Aragorn joined in. The well traveled king knew all the verses Pippin knew, or all the verses Tarondor knew, whichever it was, plus a few more.

Legolas muttered under his breath, "Mortals."

As the wine did its work, Pippin became increasingly aware of the restive watchfulness of the rings. Shadowy shapes coalesced at the edges of his vision. Suddenly a stabbing pain went through Pippin's shoulder. He stopped singing, cried out and clutched at the sharp pain.

The three friends rushed toward him. Aragorn reached to steady him, but Pippin waved him off. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm not hurt. It was in my head."

"Let me see," Aragorn said, his healer's instincts coming to the fore.

"It was a memory," Pippin said, "and not one of mine. I have bits of Frodo's memories in here too, in the ring of Niflo. That was the memory of Weathertop. I've got the same memory from the other side, in the Witch-King's ring. It's the oddest thing, to be able to see both perspectives at once." Pippin blinked and rubbed his shoulder. "I have now definitely had too much. I'm starting to see and feel them as well as hear them. I'm switching to water. And I'm moving back in with Gandalf."

The three friends sat back down. Legolas observed, "I do not recall Frodo ever receiving memories of events from the Ring."

"I'm not Frodo," Pippin said. "Don't stop drinking on my account, my friends. Get plastered for me, I'll have some vicarious enjoyment. Sing another one of those songs from Umbar, why don't you, Aragorn?"

Aragorn obliged with a rather less salty tune, and Pippin joined in. Gimli pounded the percussion part on the arms of a chair.

After the song, the four sat in companionable silence for a while. Gimli made another trip to the cellar to bring up another bucket of wine from the cask. Then Aragorn said lazily, "Tell me about Numenor."

"You could smell the sea from every part of the island," said Pippin. "The water was always changing color. An intense blue-green at midday, red and black at sunset, a silver moonpath by night beneath the stars, golden at dawn. I can hear the creaking of the wooden masts. The pulling sounds of the rigging. The sails flapping in the brisk autumn breeze."

"Go on," Aragorn urged.

"There were fruit trees on green slopes. White marble houses. Public buildings with domes, a little like Minas Tirith, but all nested in among gardens and meandering walks. Not built like a fortress. It was a paradise, Aragorn. But even paradise has its discontents, as long as people live in it. There was death, and grief. Too much, for those who dwelt so near the Undying Lands. It always tempted them. As if they could take immortality by setting foot on the white shores. It doesn't work, of course. But Arzimrathon got a kind of immortality in the end. No kind anyone would ever want. To be a shape without substance, always passing through the world but never able to enjoy it again. Never taste food, or smell a flower, or hear the Sea. Going only where his master told him to go, doing only what he was constrained to do. Dead to the world but never free of it."

"I wish I could see it," Aragorn said. "Numenor is in my blood. Can you truly see the white domes and the fruit trees?"

"I see I lost you a ways back," Pippin said. "Yes, I can see them. Now that I'm drunk enough, the memories bound into the rings come to me with hallucinatory clarity. But Arzimrathon's mortal life as King of Numenor was a very short span of time. He was a Nazgul for thousands of years. You wouldn't like most of his memories."

"Still," Aragorn said. "I long to see the foundered land. I am quite drunk now. I wonder if it would work for me? You do not actually have the ring on, yet you can see it, perhaps if I just held it…"

"Aragorn! Have you taken leave of your senses?!" Pippin shrilled.

"I do not mean to keep it! Only lend me the ring, just for a little while."

"So spoke Boromir on the day he died. Frodo's memories tell me."

"But I have no wish for the power of the rings," Aragorn said. "Only knowledge."

"Then that is why they tempt you with knowledge," Pippin said, "instead of power. I think you have also had too much wine."

"He is right, Aragorn," said Legolas. "This is dangerous talk. Can you not hear yourself? Would you truly give over your soul to darkness for a vision of lost days?"

Aragorn let out a long breath. "I suppose not. I think I am going to pass out now." And he promptly did.

Gimli belched. "Not even sunset yet. Can't hold his liquor." Then Gimli, too, closed his eyes, and slumped in his chair.

That was how Merry found them when he returned. Pippin was still awake, chatting lightly in the way of hobbits. Merry whistled. "I think Aragorn's going to need some of his own remedy in the morning."

"Get some for me too," Pippin said.

"Why not? I'm still on my feet. I'll go up to the palace and fetch whatever's left of it. As long as Legolas is still here to keep you company, and ward off any unwanted eyeballs and stray hobbits."

Merry brought back a decanter from Aragorn's study, which also served as his stillroom and armory. The hobbits and the elf stretched Aragorn and Gimli out on a sheepskin near their chairs. Then Merry and Pippin retired to the next room. Legolas did not sleep, as elves do not find it necessary.

In the morning, Merry and Pippin let their friends sleep in, while they breakfasted on a generous spread from a nearby bakery, newly reopened after the War. Pippin swigged some of the medicine in the decanter. "Bleahh. Tastes even worse than before," he commented. "Good thing there is still some pastry left." He munched on a roll filled with fruit, and yawned. "Think I'll have a bit of a nap."

"Right after breakfast?" asked Merry.

"Is there something better to do?" Pippin went back to the bedroom. Mattress room, he corrected himself.

Legolas went for a stroll in the back garden.

In a little while, Aragorn stirred. No, thought Merry, this is Strider, not Aragorn. This morning, with his hair in disarray, and having slept in his oldest clothes, he looked exactly as Merry had first seen him at the inn in Bree.

Aragorn grunted and rubbed his eyes, then sat up slowly. "Oh no, I am supposed to be issuing a decree on the Telperimir appeal this morning." He groaned and stood up. His eye fell on the decanter. "What is that doing here?"

Merry said, "I thought you three might want some more of that medicine of yours, so I went up to the palace and got it."

"Oh no," Aragorn breathed. "That's not the batch I brewed for you and Pippin. That's the batch I brewed for Frodo. A sleeping draught. Did anyone drink it?"

"Pippin had some," Merry said. "It's not dangerous, is it, Strider?"

"On top of the wine," Aragorn said, "perhaps. Perhaps not. Hobbits have uncanny constitutions. Where is Pippin?"

Merry gestured, and then followed him into the next room. Aragorn observed Pippin, then placed an ear on his chest and listened, much as he listened to troops moving over land by listening to rocks. "Get athelas. Quick! And eldarcalembel."

"What?"

"Elecampane. But the herbmaster will know it by the uncorrupted name, eldarcalembel."

Merry took two steps toward the door, then turned, hesitating.

"You must trust me now, Merry. Go!"

Merry ran to the Houses of Healing. He cursed himself all the way there. "If anything happens to Pippin—I should have been more careful. Why didn't I wait until Aragorn woke up?"

He was recognized, of course. All the regular attendants at the Houses of Healing knew him on sight, from when he had been a patient there after stabbing the Witch-King in the back of the knee. He did not see anyone following him as he dashed off with the herbs, but he knew the rumor would go far and wide in the city. Minas Tirith was a little like the Shire in that respect: everyone loved to gossip about the doings of the major families and their odd friends.

"That can't be helped now," he told himself as he ran back to the house. "I just hope Pippin will be alright!"

Aragorn already had a pot of water boiling when Merry returned. Merry stared at Aragorn's hands as the king steeped the herbs. There was a ring on his little finger. But it had a green stone, and Merry was sure it was not one of the ones he had seen go into Pippin's hand. Quite sure, he told himself. Really quite sure.


	8. Chapter 8

Nine For Mortal Men Part Eight

Pippin dreamed. He walked in the snowy forests of the East, and on misty knolls in Yamotaq's country. From rolling hills to rolling seas, through ancient cities that were no more, and the dark whipping wastes of the shadow world.

He drank in the exhultation of combat, strode among small men in the dust of the clanging battleground. Blood spattered him, mud caked his boots, he heard the sweet womanlike screams of the horses. He was the Lord of the Nazgul.

He half-awakened sometimes, aware that someone was feeding him, or giving him bitter herbal drinks. He overheard soft voiced conversations, while he yet saw the mountaintops of Rhun, or heard the roaring of the great cats of Far Harad.

He heard Aragorn's voice: "Merry, don't leave me alone with him."

"Oh, Aragorn, I'm sorry about that, I should never have distrusted you. I know you would never hurt Pippin."

"Taking the Ring of Arzimrathon would not harm him."

"Oh." A long pause. "What do you think I could do to stop you, if you tried to take it, Aragorn?" There was no answer.

Gradually, the Men who most recently held the Nine faded, giving way to the impressions of the ancient wraiths. Lusku became Ludikrennam. Shann faded away, leaving little more than his voice above the bones and glowing eyes of the undead creature who went before him. Dark cloaks wrapped them, long knives sprouted from their gauntlets, and they shone with an unholy light.

"Do you mind if I still call you by the names I've grown used to?" Pippin asked them once. He was not sure if he spoke aloud or not. None of the wraiths seemed to care. Despite the vivid scenes of their mortal lives they showed to him, it was the shadow world that was important to them. Only the darkness mattered. And the terrible absence of the Eye. There was no flame in the Void now, no all seeing presence to direct their actions. They ached with the loss of the One, and the death of Sauron. And Pippin ached with them.

They shared with him their memories of their dark master, and the great emptiness was like a wailing that went on forever. Pippin responded to the terrible lack with a kind of pity. He found himself calling up the memories of his vision in the Palantir, not with fear, but nostalgia. He missed the Eye of Sauron. Because the Rings missed it, and he was theirs.

He heard Elrond's voice, and a female voice of surpassing beauty. The woman said softly, "Something is going on, Ada. Why does Aragorn avoid this place? Why does he grow silent when I ask him what troubles his heart?"

"It is only his wisdom, to know that he is of the race of Men and should avoid the keeper of the Nine."

"Yet he pledged himself to the bearer of the One, and proved his worth."

Elrond sighed. "It is not my secret to tell, Arwen."

"Aragorn should have no secrets from me."

"He only wishes to spare you the same sorrow."

"Tell me. Your hints are worse than the truth, I am sure." There was a pause, and the sound of fabric rustling. "Tell me. What is it that Aragorn can discuss with you, but not with me?"

"I would spare you too, my daughter."

"I am no child, to be sheltered from life. Twenty seven hundred and seventy eight times have the leaves fallen in Imladris since my birth."

"It is the life of the Eldar that is at the heart of this. As you wish, Arwen. Aragorn asked me if it were possible for the sea-longing to be awakened in a mortal."

Another pause. "Surely he does not believe that I would wish to leave him now. That I would regret my choice already. I shall never regret it."

"No, Arwen. He meant that he himself yearns for the sea."

"Is it possible? Perhaps he mistakes himself."

"I think he is not mistaken, but merely exploring a possibility that at least has the virtue of being socially acceptable among elves. It is not the sea that draws him, but what lies beneath it. Numenor. And the Ring of Arzimrathon."

Pippin woke up fully in a bright room. Elrond was there. For a moment Pippin thought he was Frodo, waking up in Rivendell after the removal of the splinter of the Morgul knife. His hand went automatically to his chest, to check for the Ring on its chain. But it was not there. "Where is the Ring?!"

"They are in your pouch," Elrond said. "Galadriel had it made for you. You spoke of it in your sleep."

Pippin's hand went to his belt, and found a supple leather pouch across his belly. He sat up with a struggle and looked in it. It had individual compartments for the Rings, just as he had promised them. Each one snuggled into its own small leather pocket, held fast, separated from its rivals. "It's perfect," said Pippin. "They like it. I can tell because they're silent. None of them are shoving each other and complaining."

"It gladdens me that you are pleased. And still more that you are awake. I have been tending you this past week, along with Merry and some of the elves of Rivendell."

"Aragorn hasn't been here?" asked Pippin.

"He has visited you, as have your other friends, but he gave your care to me. For Aragorn is a great healer, but I am still greater."

"And you aren't tempted," Pippin said.

Elrond pursed his lips. "I see it will not avail to conceal uncomfortable truths, though I would prefer to leave them to a later stage of your recovery. You are correct. Aragorn was afraid to tend you himself."

Pippin reached for Elrond's hand, took it carefully by the fingertips and looked at it. "What stone is that? Sapphire?"

Elrond pulled away his hand. "You can see my ring."

"Yes."

The elf lord sighed. "Frodo could not see it, when he was in Rivendell. Nor could he see Gandalf's, on the journey. Only when he reached Lorien had he grown in subtlety enough to see Galadriel's ring."

"Everybody's always comparing me to Frodo. Hasn't it occurred to any of you great and wise elves and wizards and ringbearers just what it meant that I could hear the call of the Eye through the Palantir after touching it for only a few seconds? Not only hear it, but be unable to resist it? That was how I came to see the Eye. And he saw me, Elrond. I might still be alive, but I'm already…" Pippin trailed away. It was no use trying to explain what he had known in his dreams.

"I am aware that you are fading, Pippin," Elrond said. "The journey before you, however, is much shorter and safer than Frodo's. And you are, after all, still a Halfling. I am hopeful you will reach the end in a state from which you can recover."

Pippin just made an mmm sound for answer. He thought about asking what Elrond thought was going to happen in the Mountain, but he did not. There was no point dwelling on it.

During the next few days, preparations for his quest were made, but by others. He had little to do but eat and drink, and sleep, and have dreams of bygone days and black cloaks flapping. Merry brought him his sable uniform with the White Tree on it. "Finally got you out of this long enough to send to the washer-women, Pip," Merry teased. Pippin smiled. He had always liked his uniform, but now his gaze rested rather in the caesura of the design, the black fabric, rather than the bright devices emblazoned upon it.

Pippin was left alone quite a bit. He took to examining the rings, one by one, to pass the time. Each one was unique and beautiful. He turned each ring over and over in his hands, thinking how perfect was its form, how its gem sparkled. When he had visitors, he did his best to be polite in hobbit fashion, but he itched to open the pouch again and draw out a ring, to caress it in rapture, to be entranced by the bright circle of its metal. He started putting them on, one by one, getting the feel of them. He could see the visions of each ring while quite sober now. He had only to put one on, and think the name of the ghost in the metal, and he could see its history.

The setting out was a public event. Pippin was surprised, but then he thought, "Well, the meeting with Chin's men was public, everybody saw me take the rings, or rather, everybody saw Frodo and Merry force them on me. Strange, I can't imagine why I used to be angry about that. I think I actually felt violated. Isn't that odd now. I think I remember actually not wanting them."

Pippin was further surprised to learn that he and Merry were going only with a small troop of a dozen soldiers of Gondor. Ten of the soldiers rode horses. The other two drove a team of two horses which pulled a wagon. The wain carried provisions, tents and other camp gear, and two small hobbit sized chairs, nailed down in the rear of the wagon under a canopy.

The next surprise was that all the other members of the Fellowship were there to see him off, including Frodo. Pippin gave a start when he saw him, having hidden from him for so long. Pippin poked Merry and pointed.

Merry whispered, "Doesn't looked doped up. But see how Gandalf is standing close behind him? I bet he's on the alert for trouble."

"Aren't any of you coming with us?" Pippin asked. "Gandalf?"

"No, my dear hobbit, I will be needed here. Do not fear! Your journey should be quite safe. The King's scouts report no sign of the men of Chin or his allies in Mordor, and the orcs are quiescent."

"Legolas and Gimli?" Pippin asked. "Legolas, I know you once said you would like to go back to Ithilien."

"That is true, but this is your quest, Pippin. As Gandalf says, it should not prove overly difficult. The way is open, and you have sufficient guard."

"Not overly difficult," muttered Pippin. "Until I get to the end."

"Come back safe, Pippin," said Aragorn. "Bring me back many tales of Numenor."

Pippin nodded. "I will try to remember them."

"Good luck," said Sam.

"May the Valar defend you," said Frodo.

Pippin looked at him for a moment. "Frodo, I know better than that now. What have they to do with the likes of you and me? We are creatures of darkness and fire."

Frodo did not reply.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine For Mortal Men Part Nine

As everyone had assured him, the journey was rather uneventful until they came to Ithilien. The first hour out of Gondor had been the hardest. They had had to cross the Pelennor Fields, where the Witch-King died. Pippin had a body memory of being stabbed in the back of the knee by Merry, but he managed to conceal his pain. He wondered how Chin had come to have the Witch-King's ring. But he did not have to wonder long, for he simply asked Angmar, and Angmar told him that Chin had come secretly to the Pelennor after collecting the other eight. He had disguised himself as a simple gleaner, then gone back to Mordor with his plan to enthrall eight other Men.

After that, the journey was easy, riding in the cart. Sometimes he talked with Merry, other times he held long conversations with the rings. The soldiers kept to themselves.

He wanted more than speech, though. He wanted the visions. And had he not promised Aragorn he would bring back memories of Numenor? The first time he surreptitiously slipped on a ring, it was Arzimrathon. But then Pippin felt drawn to the others, each with its unique stories, sensations, and voice. Their rivalry surfaced, and Pippin tried to allot his time fairly, but it was hard to keep track. The visions were like waking dreams. Several times he drifted up out of a vision and found the sky had changed, and he was hungry. Then he dug into the bags and boxes in the wagon, chatting with Merry for a bit, but he felt increasing pressure to keep even with how much time he gave to each ring. So about the time they crossed into Ithilien, Pippin put them all on at once.

For a few minutes, everything was perfect. The rival rings were finally at peace with one another, since none of them were being left out. Then Merry turned to him, to make some comment perhaps, and his face went white.

"Pippin! Are you wearing one of those things?"

"No," Pippin said.

Merry looked at him more closely, eyes narrowed. Color was coming back into Merry's face now, but unfortunately, it was a rather sickly yellowish hue. "HOW MANY are you wearing, Pippin?" Merry accused.

"Um. All of them."

"Take them off. Right now." 

"What harm does it do?" Pippin asked. "You can still see me, obviously, so I haven't turned invisible."

"You look like a three week old corpse," Merry said. "Except they don't shift like that."

Pippin looked down at himself. His clothes were unaffected, but he could see through patches of his skin to muscle and tendon and blood, and through patches of those things to white bone. And the patches crawled across him like the shadows of leaves in a stiff wind.

"Oh." Pippin took off the rings and carefully stowed each one in its compartment. But he found he could not leave the rings alone, now. He kept taking one out, sticking it on his finger, then trading it for another. Merry caught him at it three times that day.

The third time, Merry said, "Am I going to have to bind your hands again?"

"Merry, don't do that. Not out here with the soldiers and the wilderness all around. I'd feel like a prisoner."

"Then you had better stay visible. All over. Skin and all."

Pippin tried to stay away from the rings. But they were in a pouch attached to his belt, after all. He decided he would try to keep his hands off them just until nightfall. Then he could wear them under cover of darkness. It was difficult, but he made it to sunset. He waited until the soldiers set up camp for the night, leaving the two hobbits alone in the wagon.

He drew his elven cloak around him, and pulled up the hood. The fabric itched him. He had not remembered it being rough. Then he put on the rings. At once he felt the peaceful darkness wash through him. The elven cloth burned him now, a little. But he endured it, for it concealed his invisibility.

Or, he thought it did. What Merry saw when he looked at Pippin now was not a hobbit in an elven cloak, but a great shadowy shape with inky darkness under its hood: a Black Rider.

"Pippin! Take them off! Take off the rings!"

Pippin did so reluctantly. He put them back in the pouch sadly, saying aloud, "Another time, my precious ones." Then he pulled off the hateful cloak and tossed it on top of a sack of vegetables.

Merry looked at him gravely. Then he rummaged in the cart and came out with a short length of rope.

"Oh Merry. Don't."

"Can't have you vanishing on me, Pippin."

"I'll try harder," Pippin said. "I stayed away from them almost all afternoon. I can do it."

"Come on, Pippin, turn around and give me your hands. I promise I won't leave you alone, or with some stranger of a soldier, I'll always be here and you'll be alright."

"If you're going to be with me all the time, why can't you just hold my hands?"

"Because sometimes I'll be asleep, and so will you. And sometimes I'll be distracted."

"What do you mean, sometimes I'll be asleep? How long are you planning to keep me tied up?"

"Until we get there," Merry said.

"What about eating and drinking?" Pippin protested, alarmed.

"I'm not going to starve you, Pippin. I'll feed you."

"What about, you know, other things? Will you let me go then?"

"I'll think about it." Merry paused. "I'll let you go the first time. We'll see how you hold up. If you put on the rings, I'll help you with that from then on."

"Merry! Allow me some dignity!"

"Allow me not to be scared to death when I look at you. You look like a Ringwraith! If the soldiers saw you like that, I'm not sure even the standing orders from their new king would keep them from deserting, or even trying to kill you. They know what a Nazgul looks like. They've seen them on the battlefield, and in the sky. And they know they're enemies."

Pippin looked down, defeated. He let Merry take him by the shoulders and turn him around, and tie his hands. This time, at least, Merry was not blind drunk, and managed to get the cord entirely over Pippin's black uniform sleeve, so the rope would not bite bare skin. But Merry tied it tight.

Then Merry guided him to his chair, and helped slip the chair back between his back and his bound arms. As promised, Merry fed him. Merry also tried to talk with him, chatting lightly in hobbit fashion, but Pippin paid only enough attention to keep chewing. He walked in dreams, holding silent conversations with his true friends, the Nine, who would never truss him up like a midyear's lamb. The Nine were always eager to do as he bid them, sharing tales, songs, the smell of wood smoke on the wind over the plains calling Niflo home to his village, the salt tang in the air as Tarondor maneuvered his dromond to bring the underwater ram to bear on a fat merchanter, the great stomping and shouting in unison as Durbatu reviewed the troops of orcs passing over the bridge out of Barad-dur, the haunted loveliness of the shadow world, insubstantial, fluttering, the welcoming darkness, the comforting presence of the Eye through every old memory, and the awful loneliness of its absence. The blankness, the terror of that hole in the shadow world where the Eye once blazed. That need, that deprivation, that made the rings jump at the chance to touch a living mind. He comforted them, in their lonesome black shadow hearts, just as they comforted him, in his bound and betrayed existence.

A few days later, they reached the new settlement in Ithilien, where Prince Faramir had set up the seat of his principality. No one told Pippin its name, but he could smell it when the wagon approached; it smelled like baking bread and something savory over a hearth fire. The wagon stopped before a large, new structure. As was becoming routine, Merry had one of the soldiers lift Pippin to the ground and set him on his feet.

Faramir came out to meet the travelers. His men helped the soldiers find places in the stables for their mounts, and places for themselves with Faramir's men. Pippin's lagging spirits revived at the sight of his Gondorian friend. He sounded like a perfectly normal, cheerful hobbit as he exclaimed, "Faramir! How good to see you! Is that supper I scent on the wind?"

Faramir laughed. "And I am glad to see you also, Peregrin of the Tower Guard. And you, Meriadoc, esquire of Rohan. I have had news of your coming and have prepared a hearty banquet. I have not been told the exact nature of your errand, but now that you are here, the puzzle will no doubt be explained. Come inside, and be refreshed."

Pippin started toward the large house, and that was when Faramir noticed Pippin's bonds. With a sharp indrawn breath, Faramir turned to one of the soldiers, his face hardening. "Why is he bound?"

The soldier reported, "The other Halfling is in charge, sir."

Faramir turned to Merry. "What is the explanation for this?"

Pippin, feeling quite Tookish again, decided to have a bit of fun. "They're going to sacrifice me to the volcano god."

"Pippin!" Merry cried, annoyed. "This is serious business."

"Just proving a Took can still get up to mischief with his hands tied behind his back."

Merry rolled his eyes, then turned to Faramir. "He carries things he ought to keep his hands off," Merry explained. "But it would be best to discuss that later."

"After dinner?" asked Pippin.

Faramir nodded. "I see there must be some tale in this. But come! Here in the stronghold of Ithilien, at least, you shall walk free, my friend and savior. Whatever may be the answer to this riddle, it shall wait until after the welcoming feast, and I would not have you come to it in such a fashion. I could not bear it. Release him, Merry."

"Alright," Merry agreed, going to Pippin and beginning to untie him. "But have a care. Watch out for, well, no, I'll explain later. Everybody in Minas Tirith already knows, but there's no sense adding all your men to the list of those who might be tempted to a little pilferage."

"My men would not steal from my guests!"

Merry finished, coiled the short length of rope, and stuck it in his belt. "Actually, I'd rather not tell you about it either, if you don't mind."

"Merry!" Pippin chided, shaking out his hands, "Faramir let Frodo go, I think he's passed that test already."

Faramir's eyebrows climbed. "Let us go in," he said quietly.

The dinner was all a hobbit could hope for, varied, generous and unrushed. There were roasted game birds, a hearty stew of meats and roots, pies of squash, pasties of meat and greens, bowls of fruit, wheels of cheese, berry tarts, and yellow wine. But eventually it ended, and the hobbits and Faramir retreated to his study.

The three seated themselves. Merry sat on the edge of his seat, but Pippin nestled into a plush divan. "It is so nice to be able to finally get comfortable."

Faramir began, "The last message from Minas Tirith said you were coming, and that you have an errand in Mordor. My scouts had already scoured the land, and had confirmed that Chin and his armies dispersed. I had at first thought that King Elessar's peace negotiations had bourn fruit. But your coming does not fit into that scenario. The King's missive hinted that there was much more to tell, and the lack of an explanation to his Steward implies he did not trust his messengers, though they were honest soldiers of Gondor."

"Aragorn doesn't trust himself," Pippin said. "Or he would have come with us, I think."

Merry said, "Do you really need to know now? Can't you wait until we've gone? The soldiers who came with us all know the story. It's public knowledge in Minas Tirith, but still, I'd feel safer if for once I could spend a night among men ignorant of our mission. Doubtless by tomorrow our soldiers will have told yours, but for tonight I could have a respite from trying to be alert even in my sleep."

"If that's what you want," Pippin said, "why not leave the soldiers here for tonight and go on up the road a piece? I'm sure we could reach the next shelter right quick if we rode one of the soldier's horses."

"What next shelter?" asked Merry. "This is the only settlement around here. It's tents and wagons all the way across to the Mountain."

"Minas Morgul," Pippin said. "It's not far. We'd have it to ourselves."

"Surely you cannot think to made a decent camp in that accursed valley!" breathed Faramir.

"No, no, in the tower, of course," Pippin said. "It's quite dry. These clouds that have been blowing in from the west all day won't bother us at all."

"Minas Morgul is haunted," Faramir protested.

"No it's not," Pippin said. "Not anymore. Well, actually, it would be if I was there, technically, I suppose. And anyway, I have a mind to retrieve a few things. Books, actually. Did you know they could read books? I didn't think they could see, back when they were hunting us in the Shire."

"You would touch the sorceror's scrolls that belonged to the Nazgul?" asked Faramir incredulously.

Pippin shrugged. "I've touched more than that already. Merry, I know you don't trust anybody, but Faramir didn't want the One, he won't want the Nine either."

Faramir gasped.

Merry made a sour face. "Aragorn didn't want the One."

"That's different," Pippin said. "He wants the ring of Arzimrathon because he wants to know what it was like to be the King of Numenor. He doesn't see that he already is. He's got what Arzimrathon lost. But anyway, he didn't take it." Pippin looked down at the pouch. "Quiet, Arzimrathon. I know you hate Aragorn. Jealous little wraith. But that didn't stop you from tempting him, did it?"

Faramir stared.

Merry commented, "He does that a lot. Talk to them, I mean. He's named them all."

"I have not," Pippin said. "They already had names."

"So you are going to the volcano," Faramir said. "To cast the rings into the fire."

"Yes," said Pippin, "we're going there, but as for casting them away, I already couldn't let go of them a minute after they were forced into my hand. I think I'm going to have to jump in."

Merry opened his mouth, but no words came out. After a moment, he said in a strangled voice, "I'm not going to let you jump in!"

"If I can't do it," Pippin said, "You're going to have to push me in."

"Never!"

"I've thought a lot about this, Merry. Frodo couldn't let go of the Ring. That's why he has nine fingers now. But we don't have a Gollum handy. What are we going to do when we get to the Crack of Doom?"

Merry looked away. "I don't know. We'll figure something out."

End of Part Nine


	10. Chapter 10

Nine For Mortal Men Part Ten

Eowyn walked into the study. Her gown was cut simply in the Rohirric style, but was made of something shimmery, as befit the wife of a prince. Merry ran to her and they embraced, laughing.

Pippin had barely noticed her at dinner, but now, seeing her and Merry together, something dark rose within him. He remembered how they had looked in the shadow world, where everything was like the flapping wings of a great swarm of bats: land, sword, and horse. But Eowyn had held steady. The only thing that did not waver on all the battlefield.

"Slayer," whispered Pippin. Stark fear was in his face. His hand stole toward the pouch, just to touch it for reassurance. Before Merry noticed the movement, the alien mind within Pippin stopped it himself, and brought Pippin's hands before his face. "These are not my hands," he whispered. He stared at them, then pressed one hand to his chest. "I'm breathing!" he exclaimed in amazement.

Merry looked over at him. "Of course you're breathing, Pippin. What did you expect?"

"You," Pippin sneered at Merry. "Slayer's little helper."

"What?" asked Eowyn.

Pippin looked up at her in abject terror. He backed away a step. "How did you get to be taller than me?"

Eowyn looked puzzled, but Merry realized what was happening. "Come back to us, Pippin," Merry said, walking toward him. Pippin jumped back. Merry said, "Don't you know me, Pippin?"

"Well do I know thee, Halfling," Pippin snarled.

"Pippin! Have you got one of those things on? Let me see your hands!"

Pippin leapt at Merry. "Hands will I show thee, impertinent one!" Pippin's hands reached for Merry's neck. "Shall I slay thee in thy turn, or bear thee away to the tower of lamentation?"

Eowyn moved to step between them, right hand straying to her side, where no sword hung.

"Faramir! Grab him!" Merry yelled, fending off Pippin's attack.

Faramir caught Pippin by the back of the shirt and pulled him off Merry. For a moment Pippin struggled. Then Faramir called, "Pippin! Pippin!" And Pippin blinked, and stood staring. For a moment no one moved.

"Faramir?" Pippin asked. His voice was high and soft.

Faramir let go of his shirt, and Merry came to stand in front of him. "Are you with us again, Pippin? Are you yourself?"

"What just happened?" Pippin asked.

"Let me look at your hands," Merry said. Pippin held out his hands, trembling a little. "You don't have one on. And this happened anyway," Merry said.

"I— it must be the wine," Pippin said. "But I only had two glasses! I thought they could only play tricks on me when I'm dead drunk."

"What is going on?" asked Eowyn.

"Later," Faramir said.

Merry turned to Faramir. "I think I'd better tie him back up. If you'll let me."

Faramir looked at Pippin for a few moments. Pippin was looking down submissively now, slump-shouldered. Faramir nodded. "I did not understand."

"Turn round, Pip," Merry said gently, pulling out the rope. He bound Pippin's hands, careful to make sure there was sleeve between the cord and the skin at all points, but drawing the binding tight as the lacing on a drumhead.

Pippin stared at the ground, blank faced. Then tears slid down his cheeks. "Merry," he whispered. "The face, if you please."

"Sure, Pippin," Merry said. He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and wiped Pippin's tears.

After that, Faramir guided the hobbits to a guest room with two big, fluffy, man-size beds. Pippin waited for Merry to turn down the blankets, then got in and turned on his stomach, as he had grown accustomed to doing on this journey, so he would not lay on his arms wrong. Merry tucked him in without a word, and waited for him to fall asleep. Then he retreated to the adjoining sitting room to visit with Faramir and Eowyn. He pulled a settle over to where he could keep an eye on Pippin through the doorway.

The next day the trip continued as before, until they got to Morgul Vale. They intended to take the old orc-road over the pass, and so come through to Mordor at the Tower of Cirith Ungol without having to go through the spider's tunnel. That was the surest road into Mordor, now that the Black Gate had fallen into ruin and fissures opened up all around it in the quake that followed the mountain's eruption.

When the desecrated tower in the Vale of Sorcery came into the sight of the hobbits on the wagon, Pippin sighed, "Minas Morgul," in a tone he had previously reserved only for Longbottom Leaf. "I've got to stop here, Merry," Pippin said. "I must retrieve the books."

"That's the rings talking," said Merry.

"But I promised Aragorn I would bring back tales of Numenor."

"He meant for you to tell them, you know that."

"Well yes, but why not bring him Arzimrathon's own book? He wrote it himself, right here in the tower. Did you know Ringwraiths could get bored, Merry? They did, when they had nothing to do. Sauron left them alone for a long time, like forgotten toys. Arzimrathon liked to write, a bit like old Bilbo that way. They had hobbies, Merry. They were people."

"They were evil."

"They were Men."

"Nobody is going into that damned tower, Pippin. The places freezes my blood, and I'm sure not letting you go in alone. And I'm not ordering the soldiers to go in, look at them, they can barely control their horses. The poor beasts want to bolt."

Pippin was quiet for a little while. The wagon was not really very high, and they were not going that fast. His hands were bound, but he was not tied to the chair. All he would have to do to be free to jump would be to stand straight up, so his arms would clear the chair back. Then two big steps, and a short fall, and he could run. When the wagon drew level with the tower road, Pippin put his plan in motion.

He stood suddenly, made sure his arms lifted above the chair, and ran across the wagon. Big jump! He told himself. Clear the cartwheel! Then he was over, and hitting the ground. The fall seemed to happen in slow motion. He had been so cautious to get away from the wheel that he had forgotten to get set to land on his feet. He thought he should straighten out so he would fall across his legs and belly, but he could not uncurl from around the ring pouch. His face hit the stone. He felt blood gush from his nose, and a lip crack, but he did not care. He was away! He scrambled up and tore off down the road like a racing dog.

He heard shouts behind him: "Pippin!" That was Merry's voice. And the soldiers: "He's escaping!" and "After him!"

The gate was hanging open. He ran past quickly. Dimly, he was aware he was probing his front teeth with his tongue, and was satisfied they remained in their sockets. But it was only a reflex. His mortal body would burn away in time, leaving only ash, for he was the servant of the Ash: the Ash Nazg, the One Ring, though it was destroyed. The Lord of the Nazgul still bowed to the place where the One used to bind him. Just as Pippin no longer even thought about using his hands, even when he was falling on his face; being bound was normal for him now.

He jumped over picked-clean orc bones lying strewn on the floor, where some giant thing had gnawed them.

Pippin flashed up the stair, down a corridor, across a wide hall. He heard footfalls behind him, and started to turn to look over his shoulder just as he crossed the threshold of the wraiths' lair. He went smack on the stone door, and rebounded from it. He did not try to raise a hand to touch his smashed cheek. But he did stare at the door for a second.

"It didn't open for me."

The footfalls were coming nearer. A soldier's voice resounded in the stone halls, "Teach you to run, Morgul rat!"

Pippin scampered away as the soldier came into view, sword drawn. "Of course the wraith's door didn't open, I'm in a mortal form, and I'm not wearing a ring. How can I put one on? What do I do now? A! The soldier!"

The swordsman caught up with him. Pippin backed against wall. Instead of using the sword, though, the soldier kicked him. Pippin fell down. "Curse you, to make me chase you into this unlucky place! Up! Back to the cart!"

Then a most amazing thing happened. Another Man jumped the soldier from behind. The dark haired man had a short growth of beard, and for a moment, Pippin thought he was Strider. He was dressed mostly in grime, but there was a gold ring in his ear.

As the soldier fell, bludgeoned with a stone, Pippin recognized him. "Tarondor! Why can I see you? I'm not even drunk!"

The former pirate glanced around, checking for more foes. "Who are you, boy?"

"It's me! Pippin!"

"Why do they hold you prisoner?"

"Never mind that now, we've got to get the books before more soldiers come!"

"The books! That's what I came for too. But I can't get through the door without a ring."

"And I can't put one on without the use of my hands," said Pippin. "Quick! Get his sword, cut me free!"

Tarondor picked up the soldier's sword, eliciting a slight groan from the unconscious man. He cut away the rope.

"It actually worked!" Pippin cheered. "This is the most vivid hallucination I've had yet!"

"Give me my ring," Tarondor said. "No, wait! I hear more footsteps. It must be the soldiers of Gondor, all the orcs have been eaten."

Pippin fished out a ring, he didn't bother to choose any particular one, and laid his hand on the doorknob. The door opened. He and Tarondor rushed through, and closed it behind them. As they crossed the armory and headed into the library, Pippin heard soldiers banging on the door.

"That'll slow them down!" Pippin crowed. He picked up a satchel and started stuffing scrolls and codices into it. Tarondor ran to a side room, grabbed some large sacks, and did the same.

Tarondor laughed. "I feel like I'm looting again! Like I'm racing the sea to save treasure from a sinking ship!"

"Me too!" Pippin cried. "That's the last, we've done it!"

"Come on!" Tarondor yelled. "To the aviary, at least one of the piterodaks must be alive or the orcs would not have been eaten."

Pippin had looked no further than getting the books, but now he thought, why not? Why run back to Merry with his sacks of loot, when the soldiers were angry at him and had tried to hurt him? If he opened the door now, they might beat him, or worse. Merry and the men of Gondor, and their pitiful horses, really did not need to cross Mordor with him. He could ride a piterodak to the Mountain of Fire!

They ran up the stairs to the top of the tower. There was a huge pile of bones in the aviary, and it stank. But there was, indeed, one piterodak left alive. It was small, perhaps not yet full grown. Tarondor hurried to saddle it. Pippin stowed the books in a saddlebag. Then they were off! It was almost like riding Shadowfax with Gandalf. Except they were actually riding the wind, not just riding like the wind. And they were a very long way up. The flying beast's great wings beat the air. Pippin shrieked a command to it in the Black Speech of Mordor. His hobbit voice did not sound much like a Nazgul, but the beast obeyed, and turned toward the Mountain. Far below, he saw a few soldiers holding onto the horses. Merry was nowhere in sight; he must have gone into the tower looking for Pippin.


	11. Chapter 11

Nine For Mortal Men Part Eleven

"Boy," said Tarondor, "tip your head back. It will stop the nosebleed."

Pippin obediently tipped back his head. He looked up at Tarondor as they rode on the piterodak. "Pippin. My name's Pippin. Don't you remember the past few weeks?"

"A, mermaid scales! The past few weeks have been a nightmare. It was not bad enough I lost everything once, and had to start over as a highwayman instead of a pirate, far from my home. Oh no! Then just when my life was looking just about perfect, along comes Chin and his damned 'gift'. In Umbar the slaves may be controlled by force or fear, but never by stealing their souls! Even slaves have the right to keep those. That other boy who took the rings from Chin, at first he terrified me, but then I thought I might have a hope of being free again. He took the accursed gold slave collar from my finger and set a geas on me to go home. I thought finally I could! But the Umbarian magician's curse proved the stronger. I led my men to the border of Umbar, and could go no farther. I stopped cold between one step and another! I had to turn around! Most of my men deserted me. Some went on the Umbar, to the pirate's life I'd promised them, and others, doubtless, went off to form their own bands of robbers or find some other use for their ruffian skills. Sharks' teeth! I thought then of Minas Morgul, and the scrolls of sorcery. Perhaps something there could help me win free of the competing geasa. But when I got there, I could not pass the wraiths' door! My three remaining companions left me then, too. Two of them deserted me, and the third, well, I found his bones in the morning. I suppose Ursuka, here, ate him." Tarondor patted the flank of the flying beast. "I've had such a string of bad luck I wonder if the accursed Valar from beyond the sea have taken an interest in grinding me into the dirt because of my name! The sea-witches always said it was bad luck for an Umbarian pirate to wear the name of a king. But I couldn't change it, at least not while my mother lived. And after that, well, I was already well known. I would change it now, if I ever was able to go back to Umbar. Then perhaps I would pass unnoticed by those who cursed me in the first place. Both the Umbarian princes and the hateful Valar."

"You—you're the REAL Tarondor."

"Yes. Who did you think I was, b—Pippin?"

"I thought I was talking to one of the rings again. I do that a lot. Even when I'm sober."

The beast flew up over the Mountains of Shadow, and they saw Mordor below them. "We've left the soldiers of Gondor behind," Tarondor said. "We should land somewhere, sort out the books and find the spells we need."

"We can land at the Mountain," Pippin said. "That's where I'm going, and it would take the soldiers many days to catch up to us there. We'll have plenty of time."

"As you wish," Tarondor said. "There are few enough places of shelter here."

"Look," Pippin said. "There's a single orc below." Pippin reached forward and laid a hand alongside the snakelike neck of the piterodak. "Hungry, Ursuka?" The beast cawed. Pippin gave a command in the Black Speech, and Ursuka stooped on the orc. "Attagirl!" Pippin congratulated as Ursuka snatched up the orc in her jaws. When they reached the Mountain, Tarondor gave Ursuka the command to land. His Black Speech did not come as naturally to him as it did to Pippin, being of a stronger will and therefore less attuned to the vibrations of the ring he once wore. The beast landed just outside the door into the mountain, and began to devour the orc. Pippin and Tarondor dismounted and hauled their loot into the Mountain's heart.

The way did not go far. The forge of Sauron had been swept away in the Mountain's last eruption. The Crack of Doom was wider now, and the lava was very near the level of the walkway, but there was enough space for the two of them to set down the books and scrolls and begin sorting through them.

The Book of Arzimrathon was there. It was a large book, bound in black leather, in the style called jeweled, meaning the letters of the title stamped into the leather were painted gold. Pippin set it aside to bring back to Aragorn—if, that is, Pippin was going back.

"I found it!" cried Tarondor. "To Break A Geas. Oh—hmm." He read a bit. "It is a good thing I have you with me, Pippin. This spell cannot be performed on oneself. The spellcaster and recipient must be two separate people. In fact, that seems to be the general rule of all these spells."

"I hope it doesn't call for eye of dragon or some such thing."

"No, there are no ingredients listed here. All that is required is a Ring of Power. Rarer by far than dragon's eyes, even in these latter days, but we have one. You are still wearing it."

"Oh," Pippin said, and looked at his hand. "I hadn't even noticed. How odd! Usually they talk to me when I'm not even wearing them, and give me visions when I am. Hullo, which one are you? Ah, Durbatu. Interesting."

"You call it Durbatu?"

"This one was Durbatu's ring."

"Do you have mine?"

"Yes." Pippin patted the pouch.

"Do you suppose I could see it again? Not that I want it—I hate it. But I think I need it, if I'm going to cast any Morgul spells."

"I thought you said I would have to cast the Break A Geas spell."

"Well yes, but surely there is a spell you want to cast, also. Why else risk the spiritual poison of Morgul Vale?"

Pippin sighed. "I'm afraid there is no spell that would help me. I came to Mordor to destroy the rings, Tarondor."

He stared in open mouthed shock. "Can they be destroyed?"

"Of course! Why do you think I came to Mount Doom? This is the forge, right here. Or, well, actually it was over there, before the lava melted it, but in any case this is the Crack of Doom. Just toss 'em in, and they're gone forever."

Tarondor started to speak, but Pippin looked at the pouch and said, "I most certainly will. And you can't stop me, Angmar. I'll figure something out." He looked back up at Tarondor. "Actually, I have no idea how I'm going to do this. They have a way of looking after themselves. I don't think it's going to be quite as simple as just tossing the pouch over my shoulder into the fire. Did you ever try to throw away your ring?"

Tarondor nodded gravely. "Oh yes, I tried. I know exactly what you mean. So what are you going to do?"

"Don't know. I thought I was going to have several more days to think about it, and the help of my cousin Merry. I hope he isn't too worried about me!"

"And the soldiers?"

"Believe it or not, they were supposed to be protecting me. They rather forgot that part, apparently."

"They kept you captive, you escaped, they chased you down with drawn swords. The one soldier was kicking you as you lay bound and helpless on the ground, when I rescued you. Is that the way a soldier of Gondor protects someone?"

"Mmm. Let me rephrase that. When we set out from Gondor, they were under orders to guard me and the rings and to obey my kinsman Merry. Along the way, 'guard' turned out to mean something different than I think their King intended. Or maybe not. Who knows, Maybe Aragorn knew all along that when I got here, I would be unable to let go of the rings, and the soldiers were supposed to throw me into the fire. Now I'll never know. But every good scapegoat needs to escape, and I did, with your help. Now we have at least a few days before they catch up with us, and maybe I'll find something in these books that will help me. But you know, Tarondor—or maybe you don't know. When you had your ring, could you see visions? Did it speak to you?"

"No."

"I didn't think you. You don't look faded. Not to my inner eye, even with Durbatu here on my hand. I think you're soul is still attached to your body."

"Yours isn't?"

"Well, only weakly attached. I think, whether I survive the destruction of the rings or not, I'm going to become a wraith when I die. Even before I left the city, Elrond said he knew I was fading."

Tarondor shuddered. "Perhaps we can find a spell to help you. As you said, we have several days. Let's start reading." He paused a moment, looking across at Pippin from where he sat on the lava-warmed stone. "Have you got all nine?"

"Yes."

"Bring out my ring."

To his own surprise, Pippin found that he had no reluctance at all to fish out the ring he called Tarondor for the real Tarondor. He held the gold band with the glittering volcanic glass gem out on his palm.

Tarondor set down the scroll and walked on his knees across to Pippin. He reached for it, but paused with his fingertips just above it, making small motions as if caressing an invisible shell just above the ring.

"I can't," he said. "The other spell is still on me, the one to go home and never again touch a ring of power. I can't take my ring." Tarondor let his hand fall. "If we find a spell to reattach your soul to your body, you'll have to break that geas too, so that I'll be able to take the ring and do the magic."

"Of course," Pippin said. "I would do that anyway. You've already helped me great deal. You're a good and kind man, Tarondor, whatever reputation your profession may have. And I'm not just saying that because you saved me from a beating and unbound me. I know you, though you don't know me much. I've seen pieces of your life in your ring. Pirates have a fearsome notoriety, but I tell you truly, there are farmers in my own land I've been more afeared of."

Tarondor chuckled. "I have a hunch your lack of fear has more to do with how you've changed since you left your land. Travel changes a person, as I have reason to know. I have known many bloodthirsty pirates in my life, Pippin, men who laugh when they kill because it's so much fun, men who live more for slaughter and rapine than loot. Me, I've always been in it for the riches. But none of them, I think, would gleefully hop on the back of a Nazgul's flying beast. Not even those who publicly engage in insane quirks such as burning wizard's fire in their beards, just to inspire fear in others. Umbar is an enemy of Gondor, but if any report ever came back to my home that I had tread the deadly halls of Minas Morgul, I think I would have the kind of fame that such men desire. And if this tale further told that I had actually looted Minas Morgul, and stole the very scrolls of the Morgul spells, I would be the most feared pirate on sea or land."

Pippin smiled a little. "Then we two make a fine matching pair of fearsome thieves. Look, I think I found something. To Possess a Mortal Body. And here: Third Variation: Anchoring A Spirit To Its Own Mortal Body. See, Tarondor! It can be done!"

Tarondor set aside the codex he had been paging through and looked at Pippin's scroll. "I do believe you are right. It seems a simple enough spell. As long as one has a Ring of Power. Let us study these spells and be certain of what we are doing. I think you had better cast the ungeasing first, so that I can take my ring."

"Yes. I'll do the first spell breaking, to release you from Frodo's command, then you do the anchoring, and then I'll break the Umbarian curse. And then, we'll figure out how to get rid of the damned things."

The rings spoke to him, but he ignored them. He had grown so used to attending to ring visions, and so used to Tarondor being one of them, that it was easy to tell the rings he was just communing with one of their number and would get around to the others later.

The man and the hobbit studied the spells, and got ready to cast. They each took the proper scroll in hand. Pippin took the pouch off of his belt and set it between them as they knelt facing each other, so that Tarondor would be able to take his ring right from the pouch. Pippin did not want to get into the middle of the spellcasting and then be unable to hand the ring to Tarondor.

Pippin went first. "By the power of this Ring, by the Fire and the Shadow, break the geas, break the thing that constrains the man before me. Lift the curse and loose the bondage, sweep away the spell that binds him, let no more his acts be hostage, I command this man to be free."

A low rumbling began in the mountain. A hot breeze blew from the lava. Tarondor gasped and crumpled, then sat up again with a look of wonder on his face. "It's gone! I no longer feel commanded to return to Umbar! And—the other one's gone, too. I no longer feel I cannot return! You have broken both the geasa. Now for the ring."

He opened the pouch and took out his ring. He put it on. Here in the heart of Mordor, the ring's power was at its peak. Instead of going patchily transparent only down to blood and bone, Tarondor went slightly transparent clear through. Pippin wondered if he looked like that himself, with Durbatu on.

Durbatu was saying something to him, but Pippin paid no attention. It was surprisingly easy to ignore the rings, when he had something important to do. He realized that most of his problem, waiting in Gondor and riding in the cart toward Mordor with his hands bound, had simply been that his mind had nothing else to occupy it except the rings.

Tarondor cast the next spell. "Soul and spirit of the one before me, Go back into your mortal body. In the shadow world walk no more, into the void see no more. Anchor yourself in the world of sunlight, anchor yourself in the world of starlight. Be not faded, be not subtle. Live as you were meant to, return to your normal abode."

Pippin suddenly felt a wave of something unnameable go through him, and the constant whispers, chattering, and restless noises of the rings ceased, leaving a resounding silence. He realized the rings must still be speaking, but he could no longer hear them. Into this silence came a shudder in the earth, a deep groan of the mountain.

"Done," Pippin said, removing Durbatu from his hand. He put the ring back in the ring pouch. Tarondor also took off his ring, and put it in the pouch. "Now for the next problem," said Pippin. "What to do with this."

He did not think about it very long, because he became aware that the shuddering was getting worse. A red light sprung up. A terrible wind whipped through the chamber. The whirlwind lifted hair, clothing, and paper.

"The scrolls!" Pippin cried. Tarondor started stuffing scrolls and books back in the saddlebag.

There was a horrendous banging, and half the floor of the cave fell into the fire. Chunks of ground broke off, tipped, and tumbled in. The ground cracked all around Pippin.

Pippin started sliding into the dreadful gap. He grasped the ground in front of him, slowing but not stopping his descent. Books, scrolls, and the leather pouch of the rings slid past him. "Tarondor!"

Pippin reached for Tarondor with his left hand, but his right groped backward blindly for the ring pouch. He felt leather and held it in a deathgrip. Tarondor grabbed Pippin's hand and pulled him to safety. Pippin felt an unexpected weight in his right hand, and looked at it. It was the Book of Arzimrathon. Pippin had set it beside himself earlier, he remembered, intending to give it to Aragorn. He stared at it stupidly.

Then an amazed smile spread over his face. He looked at the breaking, shaking ground, and the lava gushing toward him, and laughed. "The ring pouch fell into the fire!"

"Quickly, let's get out of here!" yelled Tarondor, pulling him out of the cave. They jumped onto Ursuka, who had finished munching on the orc, and Tarondor screeched the command to fly. For a moment Pippin was afraid the piterodak would not obey them without one of the Nazgul rings on, but the beast responded to the words. She flapped her great bat wings and soared aloft, just as the Mountain erupted.

End of part eleven.


	12. Chapter 12

Nine For Mortal Men Part Twelve

Merry ran after the soldiers as they passed the gate of Minas Morgul. The tall Men outdistanced him easily, and when Merry got inside the first hall, all he found were echoes of their racing footfalls, coming from different doors, passageways, and stairs leading both up and down. He looked around in doubt.

Merry heard a soldier's voice say, "There's the little cur!" and the ring of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. His heart leapt into his throat, but he could not tell from which direction the echo came. Muffled thuds came to his ears.

"Poor Pippin!" Merry thought, "I'm the fool this time. Pippin tried to tell me that binding him would make it seem like he was a prisoner, but I didn't listen."

Just then two soldiers came down the stairs carrying a third, who was unconscious. "He had help waiting for him!" said the one in front. "How they planned it, I know not, some devilish magic of the Enemy no doubt. But Veleg here has taken a terrible blow to the head. We must return to Ithilien. It is the nearest stronghold."

"Just who or what is here?" Merry asked. "I see the bones of orcs on the floor."

"We do not know," said the second soldier. "But clearly the prisoner could not have hit Veleg on the head, even had he his hands free."

"He was not a prisoner!" Merry shouted.

The soldiers carried their wounded comrade out the front gate. Merry saw movement outside, and stood in the threshold where he could see what was going on outdoors and still keep an eye on the various passages in the tower. The cart horses were rearing and neighing, and the drovers were trying to calm them. Some of the other soldiers had mastered their horses, but some of the horses still backed from Minas Morgul, or shook their manes and tails restively.

A high-pitched, girly shriek rent the outdoor air. It was Pippin's voice. Merry charged outside, but could see nothing of note except that now even the most mellow- tempered of the horses were running mad. The cart horses bolted and ran straight off the side of the cliff. The cart clattered after them. Some of the cavalry mounts threw their riders, others took off in opposite directions, carrying their riders with them.

A few drops of dark rain spattered on the causeway from a clear sky, and a shadow passed overhead. Merry looked up from shade of the gate, and shrank back. It was a Nazgul steed! The great beast flapped its leathery wings, and Merry caught a glimpse of riders on its back, one tall, the other half as tall and curly headed. "Pippin! No!"

But the flying beast was already halfway into its climb to ascend the mountains, and Pippin could not hear him. Merry ran down the lane from the tower toward the main road, but stopped when he stepped on something wet. He looked down at where the drops had fallen from the sky. It was red blood.

Merry's knees went weak. He wanted to sink down on the roadway and weep, but he made himself run forward. "Pippin! Dear Pippin! This is my fault. He ran into the tower alone and bound, and now he's been captured by who knows who, some lieutenant of Minas Morgul who rides the Nazgul beast, taking him who knows where to do who knows what! No, what am I thinking? I know what he wants—he wants the rings! And Pippin couldn't fight back, because of me! It's all gone wrong."

Merry reached the soldiers. Only three of the horses had been recovered and were under control, and the wagon was a total loss. Five of the soldiers were injured, including Veleg, but one was dead. He had been thrown from his horse at a bad angle.

"You three with the good horses!" Merry cried. "Mount up, and one of you take me up with you. After them!"

"We'll never catch up with that thing," said one of the soldiers. "And three men to fight whatever awaits in Mordor? That is madness."

"We can't abandon him!"

"He has escaped, for good or ill," said another of the soldiery of Gondor. "We cannot pursue the winged beast. We must tend the wounded and bring them to the nearest help."

"Escaped?!" Merry yelled. "We were here to help him, you asses! If you will not ride with me, then help me get up on a horse and I'll go after him by myself!"

"Do not throw your life away in reckless haste!" said the soldier who had carried Veleg. "I know that this mission is yours, and we soldiers only detailed as guard. But it is obvious you know nothing of war. Our duty now is to our fallen comrades, lest they die from lack of care. Had we a hundred mounted men, and were the horses placid and willing, even so we could not follow the flying beast. See how it has topped the Mountains of Shadow and dipped already beyond our sight? As well race the west wind."

Merry sat heavily on the ground and put his head in his hands. He thought he would cry, but to his surprise he was no longer in despair but anger. And it was a cold anger, icy calm like a steel blade. The slow courage of hobbit kind had awoken. He stood up. "Alright. We'll go back to Ithilien. But you two, ride up to the pass and see where the flying thing is going. At least we'll have an idea what to do when we come back with reinforcements from Faramir's men."

End of Part Twelve


	13. Chapter 13

Nine For Mortal Men Part Thirteen

"Wheeeee!" Pippin didn't care that he was covered in ash, or that he still had blood on his face. Ursuka swooped low over the plain to pick up speed away from the erupting volcano, and the wind of her flight was like laughter. "We did it! We're free!"

"Yes! Free!" cried Tarondor. "Free of the blasted ring, and free of all geasa! I think you broke all three with your spell—Frodo's, the Umbar magician's, and the ring's too. I no longer felt the command to stay away from it, but I no longer felt its call, either. I can go home with a whole soul!"

"And so can I!" Pippin laughed. "No one but you could have helped me, Tarondor No one but the face and voice of one of the Nine. Certainly not Merry—one of me was afraid of him."

"One of them, you mean."

"One of me, one of them," Pippin shrugged. It was the sort of statement that belonged with a dismissive wave of the hand, but Pippin had gotten used to not having the use of his hands.

"I think I'm going to call myself Morguldacil, when I go home."

"Conqueror of Sorcery?" Pippin translated. "Hey, I still have the understanding of tongues. I wonder why? Well, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised, I can still speak the Black Speech to Ursuka here."

"And so can I," said Tarondor. "Being free does not mean the experience never happened."

"I suppose not. I hope I never have another nightmare about losing my fingers again! But now we can celebrate. Let's find Merry. I wonder if he'll dare take a ride on Ursuka with us? I can just see his face!" Pippin laughed. "Here's proof we Tooks are an adventurous lot! Hoo, and I can just imagine the expressions on Faramir and Eowyn when I come flying back to Ithilien like this, with or without Merry. Ha! It'll be priceless. Middle Earth's best prank ever!"

"Have a care, my young friend. When I first found you, lying bound on the floor of Minas Morgul, that soldier was kicking you while you were down. My heart was moved by pity. But there are doubtless more where he came from."

"But we've succeeded! The rings are destroyed, and the mountain is erupting! They gave Frodo and Sam a feast, with singing, and Aragorn set Frodo on his throne out there on the field, and everyone cheered! Surely they'll cheer me too! Do you know what I'm going to do when I see Frodo again? I'm going to say, Look, two hands!" Pippin laughed maniacally. "That will be my revenge, for making me take those damned things. I'll show him who's the better hobbit! I can do anything he can do, without losing important body parts. Heh heh heh I'll give him the finger!"

They passed over the Mountains of Shadow. Two horseman were on the ridge, looking out at Mordor, but the horses reared and bolted as Ursuka's passed. The flying beast paused near Minas Morgul, waiting for the accustomed order to alight in the aviary, but Pippin screeched to her to fly on. With great ponderous wingbeats she flew toward Ithilien.

"Merry wasn't in the plain, and I don't see him on the road, either, nor the soldiers and wagon."

"Perhaps they returned to Ithilien," said Tarondor/ Morguldacil. "See the trees starting below us? We could not espy them under all that foliage."

"That makes no sense," Pippin said. "Merry would follow me."

"Do you wish to look for him? Or go first to your other friends in Ithilien?"

"Ithilien," said Pippin. "As you said, we could not see anyone under the trees from up here. Faramir can send out scouts more familiar with this terrain. I hope nothing's happened to poor Merry! The horses were going wild when we overflew them. That would be a terrible end to our victory, for Merry to have been trampled by a horse, and he an esquire of Rohan too!"

"Nay, do not worry! I doubt not that the gods have an even worse sense of humor than do you, my friend, but surely you read worse into his absence from the road than need be."

"Tarondor—Morguldacil, I mean—come with me to Minas Tirith. Just for a little while. I'm not ready to let you go yet. You're all I have left of them."

"Perhaps. We shall see what sort of welcome I receive in Ithilien. After all, I was publicly banished from Gondor, and I am still a Corsair of Umbar as well. We shall see whether I am greeted as an honored companion of the Destroyer of the Nine Rings, or simply as an outlaw."

"There is the new stronghold! A fine start on a village, too. Faramir's princedom will be a lovely place, in time." Pippin shrieked piercingly to Ursuka, his high hobbit voice coming very close to an imitation of a Nazgul's unearthly cry. In response, Ursuka hovered and started to settle to the ground.

One of Faramir's men, clothed in the green raiment of the Rangers of Ithilien, stood at the edge of the stronghold, bow in hand. He fitted an arrow to the string.

"Don't shoot!" Pippin called. "They have gone into the fire! They are destroyed! All is well!"

Other people started coming out of doorways now.

Pippin cried, "And this is Morguldacil, who helped me destroy the Nine! Be joyous, everyone!"

One of the soldiers of Gondor that had been with the wagon ran up beside the archer. "There's the rat that escaped into Minas Morgul! And that corsair from Chin's company, too, or I'm blind! They're in league! They must have the Nine, or they could not ride that beast!"

Pippin called out, "Ursuka's just an animal. Like a horse. Look, no rings!" He held out his hands. "The Nine are destroyed! Please, won't you get Merry, or Faramir, or, or even Eowyn?" Pippin shuddered when he said her name. He was suddenly afraid that if she saw him riding the fell beast of the Nazgul, he was going to be the next creature to fall to her sword.

Then Pippin spotted a small figure exiting the door of Faramir's great house. "Merry! I did it! They are destroyed!" Well, he thought with a pang, they are destroyed, anyway. Though he had not actually destroyed them. Now he sort of understood how Frodo could feel guilty about the way the One got melted, though Pippin had previously thought it was an odd quibble.

Merry struggled to push to front of the throng, and was lost from view in the press of tall Men.

The soldier yelled to the archer, "That pirate from Umbar is an outlaw! Death is the price of his return. Well do I believe the Halfling no longer has the rings, for he has given them to the Corsairs! They'll fly away with them, swifter than the wind! The Black Fleet will be at Pelargir by sundown if you let them go!"

Merry reached the soldier and the archer just as the archer's face hardened. Merry saw that he intended to shoot, yelled, "No! Stop!" and clutched at his sleeve just as the Ranger of Ithilien let the arrow go.

The archer had been aiming at Tarondor/ Morguldacil. But Merry spoiled his aim, and the arrow flew just a little down. There was a wordless, high scream. Pippin's right hand went to his left side. A green feathered arrow stuck out from it. Merry's eyes widened in horror as he thought he saw Pippin shot in the heart.

Morguldacir screeched then, words in the Black Speech, and he wheeled Ursuka quickly away.

"No, let me off," Pippin tried to yell, but found he could barely whisper loud enough for Morguldacil to hear him over the rush of wind from Ursuka's wings. "I need a healer."

"You need to get out of bowshot, and so do I!" Morguldacil cried back. And they flew away over the trees.

Merry watched the great beast fly off, with Pippin and the Man on it. The archer let another shaft loose at their backs, and Merry rounded on him. "You fool! He was coming back to us! You drove him away! Maybe killed him! If Pippin dies I swear I'll have your head, one way or another!"

The Ranger looked down on him, and sneered, "Don't threaten me, boy. I was shooting at the corsair. It was your jostling that fouled me. You have only yourself to blame if the boy dies. Odd friends you have, pirates and Nazgul beasts. I wouldn't be too eager to claim them if I were you."

"Now see here!" Merry began.

But then the soldier standing next to the archer put in, "Odd indeed! I never thought I would find myself siding with a filthy Ranger, too many of them we have in Gondor these days! But at least this one's from Ithilien, not some secret vagabond out of the North. And he talks sense, which is more than I can say for you. I know a conspiracy when I see one, no matter the great lords in Minas Tirith think you Halflings can do no wrong!"

Too late, Faramir came out of his hall, with Eowyn close behind. They had been seeing to the wounded, and had not been able to drop everything when they heard the scream and the commotion outside.

"What is going on here?" Faramir cried.

"After them!" the soldier yelled, pointing off into the trees. "They're getting away, Lord Faramir! A search party must be organized. They might set down to pluck the arrow, we could catch them yet!"

Merry called, "No! Send out searchers, yes, but to help, not to attack! That's Pippin! Your men shot him, Faramir!"

"What? What is this tale? Speak quickly!" Then everyone started talking at once. After a few moments, Faramir called, "Silence! You men there," he pointed to the front of the throng, including both his own Rangers of Ithilien and those soldiers of Gondor who were not wounded. "Go and find Pippin, and bring him back alive! Do him no harm!"

"But Lord," said one of the soldiers, "what if he has the rings?"

"Then do not take them, if you value your hide! He is still a Halfling, rings or no, and is no match for armed Men."

"And the corsair?"

"Kill him. Go now!"

End of Part Thirteen


	14. Chapter 14

Nine For Mortal Men Part Fourteen

They set down in a small clearing just as a cloud of ash darkened the sky, spreading on the east wind.

"Where are you hit?"

"Arm."

"Best take a look. I am no healer, but I have rich experience with combat wounds."

"I think I'm too dizzy to dismount by myself," Pippin said. The distance from Ursuka's saddle to the ground suddenly seemed like a long way. Waves of heat and cold chased each other across his face and down his body.

"No need to dismount at all," Tarondor/ Morguldacil said. "Just move forward a little and turn your arm toward me."

Pippin complied, and Morguldacil gingerly probed the back side of the arm, working up toward the buried arrowhead until Pippin hissed in pain. "There is the point," said Morguldacil. "Too shallow to push it through, too deep to pull it out without dislodging the arrowhead. If I pull it, it will bleed more heavily. But there is no choice, the shaft must come out. If you fly farther with the arrow sticking out, there is too great a chance you will injure yourself further by bumping it or trying to use your arm."

"I am used to not using my arm," Pippin said, not liking the sound of heavier bleeding.

"No, my friend, I am afraid the shaft really must go. But first I will find something with which to bind the wound." Morguldacil rummaged through the saddlebag, but there was nothing suitable, only books and scrolls, and the old vellums were far too stiff to bend. So he ripped off a length of the end of his tunic. "This will do for now. It can be replaced later, when we have more time. We did not fly far; they will be on us in minutes if they run hard. Here," said the corsair, handing Pippin a slim leatherbound volume from the saddlebag. "Bite on this. Try not to scream too loud, it will help our foes find us."

"But they are not my foes!" protested Pippin. "It's all a misunderstanding. Merry will set them straight. Or Faramir, if Merry's voice holds no weight. Faramir wouldn't let them kill me."

"We can take thought on how to deliver you to your friends passed the deadly screen of their subordinates after we are both safe. There is no time now! Bite."

Pippin did as he was told. Morguldacil pulled the arrow with one swift jerk and cast it aside, and Pippin did not scream very loud at all, because he nearly swooned from the saddle. Morguldacil caught him and set him back upright, then quickly tied the faded blue cloth of the corsair tunic around the dripping black sleeve of Pippin's uniform. Then Morguldacil screeched to Ursuka and they started to lift into the air.

Pippin saw movement in the trees, black Gondorian uniforms, not the green clothing of the archers. Somewhere beyond those Men was Merry, and Faramir, and Beregond of the Guard of Faramir, Pippin's dear friend from the darkest hours of his service to Denethor. Morguldacil was a friend too, but one he had really known for less than a day, though it seemed as if he had known him a long time, those were lying ring visions. If he flew away now, who knew where he would go? Umbar, and the life of a pirate?

Pippin took a deep breath and jumped. He landed on his feet, but he was sick and dizzy, and tumbled to the ground clutching his injured arm. Above him, he heard Morguldacil utter vile Umbarian oaths. The pirate ordered Ursuka to hover, then bringing his voice back down to a manlike register, he called for Pippin to stand up and reach, but Pippin waved him off. Morguldacil shouted to Ursuka again, and they flew off, low over the treetops as if searching for another place to land.

Pippin pushed himself up to his knees as three soldiers of Gondor rushed out of the woods. "Help me, please," he panted.

As the soldiers neared him, he saw to his horror that the lead soldier was the same one who had urged the archer to shoot at him. "You!" snarled the soldier. "At last we have you! You'll pay for Veleg!"

One of the other soldiers caught his arm, "Easy, Balor! Our orders are to bring the Halfling back alive."

"Orders from Faramir," spat Balor.

"Orders nonetheless," said the other. The third soldier, a rather burly fellow, nodded enthusiastically.

A chill went up Pippin's spine. This was like a replay of the orc-talk of the Uruk-hai of Isengard. He said the first thing that came to mind, though it was perhaps not the best thing to say: "Your master wants me alive and unspoiled."

"Fie!" said the first soldier. "That kicked-upstairs princeling is no master of mine! A band of exiles and traitors he has, crouching in the wilderness within strike of Minas Tirith, and within spitting distance of the accursed valley! Did your corsair friends ride up the road to Minas Morgul with his aid and blessing?"

"What?" Pippin asked, blinking in confusion. Politics was not his forte even when unhurt, and now his head was already spinning. "Where is Merry? Can you not take me to him?"

"Of course we will," said the second soldier.

"Nar!" said the first. "The Halflings are all in league together. The one placed in charge of the prisoner was the first to defend him."

"Now Balor," said the burly man, "all that's above the likes of us. We were sent out here to find Pippin and bring him back, so let's be about it, so we can knock off and have some ale this evening before this ash chokes us."

The paranoid soldier sneered, "Already covered with it, is he not? He has been in Mordor, conspiring with the orcs and the corsairs and whatever still lingers in the tower of sorcery, and the Rangers of Ithilien too no doubt." The soldier advanced on Pippin and pulled him to his feet by the front of his embroidered surcoat. "You, Halfling, are not fit to wear the emblems of the King."

"The Lord Denethor gave me this livery," Pippin said, his pride stung, despite his fear.

"The House of Steward shall never rise again!" growled the soldier. He yanked Pippin's uniform shirt up over his face and arms, making of it an effective hood and bindings. The shirt was skin tight even when he did not have a swollen arm, and now, halfway peeled out of the uniform shirt until it hit the bandage around his lean hobbit bicep, Pippin's weak struggles only served to further entangle him. He uttered muffled cries of pain.

Then he heard the ring of steel, the unmistakable sound of a sword clearing a scabbard. Pippin panicked and tried to shriek for Ursuka, but he could not catch his breath. Two more sheath-clearing sounds sent Pippin running blindly in he knew not what direction. He heard the clang of steel on steel and a shout of "You shall not denigrate the great Lord Faramir so!" and he realized the soldiers were fighting each other. Then he ran headlong into a tree. Pippin swooned and knew no more.


	15. Chapter 15

Nine For Mortal Men Part Fifteen

Pippin came slowly awake still tangled in his uniform shirt. He was lying face down on something that was in places yielding, and other places bony, and was rapidly going cold. His forehead hurt, and he remembered knocking it on the tree before passing out. His back hurt too. He did not have long to wonder why; something hit him in the back again.

The mad soldier was speaking somewhere above him. The monolog did not seem to be directed at Pippin, precisely; it was a rant against a large number of different people, few of whose names Pippin recognized. One name he did know was Beregond. The soldier growled, "And Beregond is a filthy traitor who should have been hanged! Such are the men of Ithilien these days, murderers and blasphemers, and their Prince is the worst of the lot. Dealing with Corsairs and sorcerers and flying beast riders out of Minas Morgul."

The soldier hit him again and again, punctuating each phrase with a blow. Not with a stick; it was straight and cold and it nicked him along two long straight edges. Pippin realized he was being beaten with the flat of a sword. There was blood on his back, growing sticky and cold in the evening air, but Pippin knew it was not his. He could tell that the incidental nicks from the edge were not enough to make him bleed, and his wounded arm was above his head. He suddenly realized where the blood came from, and what he was lying on: the other two soldiers, dead.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to spring up and run. He was frozen in place, too frightened to move or even whimper.

Then he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on grass, and a surprised whoof from the soldier, then the sound of a sword hitting wood, a sharp crack, and a thud as a body hit the ground. "Pippin! Do you live?"

"Tarondor! Morguldacil, I mean. Help me disentangle myself."

"No time for that," said the corsair. He picked Pippin up and took off at a run. "Other soldiers will come, I'll tend you when we're away." He crashed through the woods, jumped up, and slung Pippin over Ursuka's saddlebow. "Hang on," directed Morguldacil, then shrieked to Ursuka and they lifted off the ground.

They flew what seemed like a long way before Morguldacil gave Ursuka the order to land. He pulled Pippin down off the saddle and set him on a log, then worked at getting the shirt back down from Pippin's face. Pippin heaved a great sigh when the black fabric finally came free. He saw he was by a little stream, and Ursuka was curled up by some sheltering rocks. There were only a few trees; they were no longer in Ithilien.

"Where are we?"

"No place of which I know the name," said Morguldacil. "Just somewhere away from everywhere else. Far enough, I hope, that we can camp here safely this night, while we decide what to do."

Morguldacil retied the blue rag around the arrow wound in Pippin's arm.

"Once again you've saved me. How can I ever thank you, Tarondor? Morguldacil." Pippin shook his head. "I'm terrible at name changes. I still call Aragorn Strider sometimes. Much to the horror of the courtiers. Oh, Morguldacil, how am I ever going to get back to my friends? That soldier was crazed. He was one of the ones who came with us from Minas Tirith, and none of them ever seemed out of their heads until I jumped and ran. I was raving myself plenty of times, talking out loud to the rings, but they always seemed such a stolid lot."

Morguldacil started building a campfire as the night came down.

"Perhaps he was not insane until he entered Minas Morgul. Moon-touched; Minas Ithil had a reputation for driving men mad even in its heyday, before ever the Nine moved in."

"Looney. That's what we say in the Shire. Nobody knows from Minas Ithil there, yet we still say it." The crescent moon rose above the rocky hillside, as if called by its naming. "Look, Morguldacil. It's like a smile in the sky."

Morguldacil turned to look at the moon, bright against a still faintly bluish sky, as the first stars came out. "Yes. Beautiful." Then he turned back to the campfire, which finally caught. He began feeding it small sticks, and gathering larger downed branches for later.

"Beautiful white teeth," Pippin sighed. "Long and sharp and gleaming. Wicked, lovely, like pale knives."

He was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "You feel it too, I see. Minas Ithil is your home. Part of you."

"Yes," replied Pippin. "I think it always will be. Even when I return to the Shire. I'm sure I'm no longer faded; I feel solidly present in my body, which is not such a great thing right now. But I still walk in the shadow world, inside my mind."

Morguldacil nodded, eyes reflecting the firelight. He came to sit by Pippin on the handy fallen log. "As do I. The rings are destroyed, but that does not mean they never were. I too am certain of the safety of my soul, now. Neither you nor I shall rise from the grave, a wraith of fear and darkness. But there is still memory. My ring spoke to me, too. I cannot say that I miss it, but I still feel the longing that it felt, missing its Master."

"I do. I miss it. And I know exactly what you mean. I saw the Eye once, before I ever touched a Ring of Power. It was the most horrible experience of my life, and that's saying something. Having the Nine did not compare. Not even being a prisoner of the Uruk-hai was more frightening, or more painful. I would not relive that for anything. And yet, through their eyes, in the memories of the rings, I came to know how dark and empty the Void is within Him."

"Yes. That's it exactly."

"In all Middle-Earth, there are only eight men and one hobbit, other than us two, who will understand. And I'm not at all sure about the hobbit. I've spent the entire time since he put the rings in my hand avoiding him. And the other men are still under Frodo's geas to return to their homes. The only one nearby would be Durbatu, whose home is in Mordor." Pippin shuddered. "I don't think I would really want to have a discussion with him about how much I miss the Eye of Sauron. Brrrr."

"I know," Morguldacil said quietly. "I too am loath to part with you, my friend. To whom in Umbar could I speak of Minas Morgul, and of casting Morgul spells in the very forge of Orodruin, and not have it taken for a boast?"

Pippin chuckled suddenly, his native hobbit good cheer reasserting itself despite all his hurts. "They'll believe you if you come home riding on Ursuka."

"Indeed, the flying beast will be a great asset in my career. A few scrolls in the Black Speech, too, perhaps, just to show to people. I doubt any of these spells would fetch much on the magical market, since they are all designed to be powered by the Nine. Conversation pieces, only, collectibles as it were. The books of history may be valuable. I suppose it may be time to think about dividing up the loot."

"I want the Book of Arzimrathon. To give to Aragorn. You keep the rest."

"Oh, now that is hardly a fair division of the spoils, for me to take all but one book and the fell beast as well."

"Then—also the scroll of re-anchoring. Perhaps one of the wielders of the Three can use it on Frodo."

"And for yourself? You speak only of gifts."

"I want nothing for myself from Minas Morgul, except what I've already gotten. I have my soul back. That is more than enough."

"As you wish. Tomorrow in the morning light you might sort through the books and see if there are any others that appeal to you. And now for other plans. How are we to return you to your kinsman Merry?"

"I don't think we can," Pippin said. "Ithilien will be crawling with archers now, after they find the three soldiers slain. I think we'd better try for Minas Tirith, instead. And it must be soon, before a messenger can reach the city from Ithilien."

"Tomorrow morning, then," said Morguldacil. "We can easily outpace any horseman on Ursuka. Are you still cold? You are shivering."

"I hadn't noticed. But I guess I am."

"Here, let's move this log closer to the fire. You are in shock from the arrow, no doubt."

"Hobbits don't suffer that affliction of men. My kind are far tougher than we look."

"That I know. Still, let us move it. Up a moment, if you can." Morguldacil moved the log and they sat back down.

"So, Minas Tirith. There are archers there as well. What shall we do? Drop a message from the sky, written on the back of a Morgul scroll? Saying what: let the Nazgul beast land on the city walls if you want to see Pippin alive again? That sounds much more like a threat and a trap than a joyous return."

"It might be the only way," Pippin said glumly. "Or, I suppose you could drop me off outside the city, out in the fields, but there I am very much afraid I would encounter more soldiers before my friends arrive."

"Somehow we must get through the soldiers and deposit you right in front of those who will not harm you."

"Yes, and still get you away afterwards. Let's not forget that part."

"Let us not indeed!"

"I'm too tired to think, Morguldacil. Is there anything to eat?"

"Nay, but there is water from the stream, if you wish some."

"I do."

"Let us go to it, then, before we lose the light entirely. It will be cold, but we can return to the fire."

They drank, and warmed up again by the campfire, and then Pippin curled up in the dirt by the crackling fire and fell into a dreamless, exhausted slumber.


	16. Chapter 16

Nine For Mortal Men Part Sixteen

Merry stood on the fresh wooden planking of Faramir's new home, holding a headless arrow. "If he took this out, that must mean he's still alive, doesn't it?"

"I would think so," replied Faramir. "I do not know what happened out in those woods, Merry, but we must trust to hope. I have all my men out patrolling. But if we find them not, it means little; the fell beast could have bourn them far away by now."

"How did this all go so wrong?" Merry asked. But he knew the answer: it was his fault. He had made the soldiers think of Pippin as a prisoner by keeping him bound, when all Merry wanted to do was save him from fading under the awful influence of the rings. The rings that Merry had made Pippin take in the first place.

"I do not think all has gone wrong, Merry," Faramir replied. "Yes, there has been a setback in Pippin's return, but despite the steed he rode and the way he called to it in the Black Speech, sounding all too much like a Nazgul, I have also seen the ash on the wind. And smelt it, aye. The Mountain of Fire is erupting. See how the grey powder blows through the chinks in the walls? I have seen the Mountain blow like this only once before, in all the years I have spent in Ithilien. I think Pippin's quest has succeeded."

The ash traveled on the east wind. It reached Minas Tirith just before dawn. The ash cloud was high up in the air by then, blotting out the morning, and raining bits of blowing ash like grimy snow over the White City.

Frodo stood in the little yard of the hobbits' guesthouse. He had been unable to sleep that night. He had not, thank goodness, been restless enough to try another one of Strider's sleeping draughts. Once had been more than enough.

Sam came out into the small garden, still in his sleep shirt. "I heard you get up, Mr. Frodo. Are you alright?"

"I think so, Sam. I think I am finally alright. Look. Look what I've caught in my hand."

Sam rubbed his eyes. "A snowflake?"

Frodo smiled faintly. "Don't try to tell me you've forgotten what volcanic ash smells like. I don't think either of us will ever forget that odor as long as we live."

Sam looked up at the drifting cinders. He held out one brown, callused hand and let some ash fall onto it. Then he turned to Frodo with a grin. "The Mountain's blowing up. The Nine have gone into the Fire."

"Yes. I think they have. I feel no call. It's over. Finally, really over, this time. The last loose ends of Sauron have been burned away. Like a pile of tatty old leaves."

"You sound sad, Mr. Frodo. This is a relief, surely."

"It is. I was just wondering if Pippin and Merry are still alive. Why did we not think to ask Gandalf to send eagles for them?"

"Oh. Well, I'm sure they made it. They would be careful, wouldn't they? Have some plan for coming back, I mean? Not that they'd've talked to us about it before they left, after what you said about keeping the rings away from you. Everybody else must know how they planned to destroy the rings, and get back here."

Frodo nodded slowly. "You must have enough hope for both of us, Sam. I'm afraid I'm fresh out."

"We'll see what we'll see, I suppose," Sam said. "And in the meantime, what would you like for breakfast?"

Frodo smiled a little. "You have managed to remain a hobbit to the last, Sam. I'm glad." They went inside, and Sam bustled about the small kitchen.

It was about midmorning when Aragorn, Gandalf, and a great many other people were standing in the courtyard of the tree and the fountain, watching the ash falling from the sky. Some were in a festive mood, taking the mountain's eruption as a sign that the rings were destroyed. Others were worried it meant no such thing, but that the spirit of evil had returned to Mordor and was determined to conquer not just Middle-Earth but the sky as well.

A terrible, piercing cry like a Nazgul came from high above. Everyone looked up. Only the elves thought they saw a shape like a Nazgul steed. To all the others, it was too high and too hidden in the cloud of ash. Then a scroll dropped out of the sky.

Several hands reached for it, but Gandalf was the quickest, moving with surprising spryness. He unrolled it, read for a moment, then said, "It appears to be poetry. Written in the Black Speech of Mordor. It does not seem to be a spell, however. What relevance it has, I cannot yet guess. I must ponder this matter."

It was Sam, looking up at the scroll from underneath, who saw the relevant writing. "Mr. Gandalf, sir, there's something on the other side."

"Mmm?" Gandalf turned it over. "A, I see. It says 'no archers'. It is written in blood."

"No archers?" asked Aragorn. "Whoever is up there wants to land."

One of the courtiers put in, "My King, it must be a trap. Like the 'peace offering'."

"Perhaps," said Aragorn. "But my heart says nay. This ash drifting through the city may seem a sign of doom to some, but I take heart from it. I believe the Nine are destroyed."

Legolas said, "Then what of that?" pointing to the sky.

"What do your elf eyes see, Legolas?"

"I see the winged horror, a fell beast of the Nazgul."

"Flying well out of bowshot," Aragorn commented. "But a wraith fears no arrow. Nor do they love their steeds, winged or hoofed."

"How then do you read this riddle?" Legolas asked.

"I know not. But we shall soon see, if I allow the creature to alight."

"That hardly seems prudent," Legolas said. Another shriek came from above, but it did not carry the otherworldly dread and menace that usually accompanied a Ringwraith's voice.

"I daresay it is not," Aragorn replied. "But look! Already I can see the flying beast dropping toward the city. I would not shoot an enigma." He gathered his kingly voice and shouted, "No one is to shoot! Make no threatening move! Hold, all, unless I say otherwise!"

Aragorn turned to look past his friends and courtiers to the Guards at the fountain. "You," he pointed at one. "Go and pass the word to the lower levels, not to shoot at the flying beast unless I order otherwise." The Man sprung away at once.

"I believe you are right, King Elessar," Gandalf said. "For though the scroll is written in the Black Speech, the message in blood is in the Common Tongue, and shows every sign of being written in haste, and without forethought. It does not seem like a well laid stratagem."

"The best traps do not seem like traps, 'til the trap closes," said Legolas.

Then the great beast slowed its descent and came level, and the people assembled in the courtyard saw it had two riders, one tall, and a much shorter one before him. They were both covered in ash, but there was no mistaking the furry feet sticking out over the saddle. The foremost rider was definitely a hobbit.

Ursuka settled onto the white stone near the wall of the courtyard, and the crowd rushed forward. The Man set the hobbit down on top of the wall. The hobbit swayed dangerously, then recovered his balance. As the men, elves, hobbits, wizard, and assorted others came close to the wall, and the ash-covered figures, they could see the hobbit more clearly. His face was a ruin, and completely unrecognizable: covered with grey power, but beneath that, nothing but blood and bruises, a swollen nose, a split lip and a great knot on the forehead.

The Man handed down a bulging sack, which the hobbit dropped onto the white paving stones of the courtyard, near himself but not right in front of his feet where he might trip over it getting off the wall. Then the hobbit screeched in the Black Speech, a horrifying sound. The fell beast flapped its great wings and rose into the air, and sped away over the city.

"Stay!" cried the hobbit. "All of you!"

Only then did Pippin's friends know him. It was Sam who put it into words. "Why, it's Mr. Pippin! All dusted up like a flour dumpling!"

Pippin's voice was ragged and high, almost a Nazgul screech, as he shouted again, "Stay! If anyone comes near before he is safely away, or any shot is fired, or any spell cast, or any other harm comes to Morguldacil, I'll jump. I mean it!"

Pippin swayed again, as he stood on the topmost wall of the city. A gasp ran through the crowd. Aragorn took a step as if to catch Pippin, but Pippin inched backward toward the edge. "No! Stay back!" Pippin looked over his shoulder, quickly, then back to the crowd. "That is the great Morguldacil, who helped me destroy the rings. Yes! They are gone! It is a great victory, and I will not have it spoiled by the death of my friend."

"Pippin," began Aragorn, in a tone of exaggerated reasonableness.

"No! I've had a very, very bad day yesterday, Strider. You have a serious problem in your army. Your soldiers kill each other over the mere mention of the House of Steward. And I've got an arrowhead in me that belongs to the Rangers of Ithilien. So don't start. Please." Pippin glanced over his shoulder again.

Frodo pushed his way to the front of the throng and asked, "What about Merry?"

"He can hoof it the long way back! I would have given him a ride, if nobody'd been shooting at me."

"Fool of a--!"

"Don't say it!" Pippin shrieked, nearly wraithlike. "Don't ever say that again, Gandalf! Didn't you hear me? The Nine Rings of Men have gone into the Fire, and the mountain exploded! And I came back whole! Whole, do you hear me?! I expect a little respect around here from now on!"

A few people in the crowd murmured. After a short pause, Gandalf said, "I am sorry, Pippin. You are right. Please come down off that wall now."

Pippin glanced behind him again. "Not quite yet."

"No archer can reach him now, Pippin," said Legolas. "Not even I could shoot him down at this distance. Come down."

"No archer, but Gandalf could still cast a spell on him. I'm waiting until he's out of sight."

"Why would I do that, Pippin?" Gandalf asked. "If it is true what you say, and he helped rid Middle-Earth of the Nine, then I would count him an ally."

"I don't know! How should I know why any of what has happened since the rings went into the fire has happened? Nothing makes any damned sense! Or any blessed sense neither!" And Pippin burst into tears. He put his hands to his eyes, either in shame or simply to wipe the tears away, or perhaps both.

Taking advantage of Pippin's distraction, Aragorn rushed forward and pulled him off of the wall. He swung him half around toward the courtyard, to set him down by his sack of loot, but Pippin sobbed and clung to him. So Aragorn shifted his grip and held him like a child, with Pippin's wet, ash-covered face buried in the purple velvet of the King's shoulder.

"It's—it's alright now," Aragorn said softly.

"No it's not," Pippin wept. "Nothing's ever going to be alright again. They're gone, and their voices are silent within me. The Void is cold and dark and empty. No fire burns there now. I'm all alone inside this vast cavernous echoing shell that is my mortal body. Why ever did I think the re-anchoring would make it better?"

"Re-anchoring?" gasped Gandalf. "What have you done, you fool of—I mean, what have you done, Peregrin Took?"

Despite it all, Pippin smiled at Gandalf's self-correction. "You can read it for yourself, Gandalf. I brought it with me." Pippin gestured to the bag. "In case you wanted to use it. For Frodo, I mean."

"Morgul spells?" Gandalf asked in horror. "You've been dabbling in sorcery?"

"Not dabbling! I knew exactly what I was doing. I've got his memories—Angmar's. And don't look at me like that. Not all the Witch-King's spells were evil, Gandalf. He was a good witch once. Before the ring took him." Pippin wiped his face. "Set me down, Aragorn." Aragorn put him on his feet. Pippin rooted through the sack and handed an ancient scroll to Gandalf. "Go on! It's not a snake."

"And will not bite me?" Gandalf asked, taking the scroll and unrolling it. "But has it already bitten you, Pippin—that is the question." Gandalf read the spell over several times. "It seems to be—neutral, I suppose. Only time will tell exactly what you have done to yourself, Pippin."

"I know what I've done," Pippin insisted. "He's used that spell, Gandalf. Several times. I remember the results. Granted most of the time the person being re-anchored had never touched a Ring of Power. Still, there were many accidents in the first few years when he was developing the spell of the Morgul-blade. He was not yet quite evil enough back then to simply let their wraiths rise for no purpose. They were his own loyal servants, after all. Some were even his apprentices. No one who has had this spell cast on them has ever become a wraith. And neither shall I. That is what I have done, and that is why I did it."

"And then what?" asked Gandalf.

"Then what, what?"

"What will happen to your soul when you die, spellbound into your mortal flesh?"

Pippin shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care. As long as I don't become a Ringwraith." But Pippin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "Um, Gandalf, just what do you think will happen?"

"Mmm. I suppose you will see."

Pippin shuddered. "You suspect something."

"I think, Pippin, that when you die, you are going to decompose. And remain in Middle-Earth."

"Oh. Well, is that all. I wouldn't mind becoming part of the soil of the Shire, you know. That's mostly what we hobbits think is going to happen to us anyway, whenever we happen to think of it. But in the meantime, it's better to keep our minds on planting and harvesting and eating and drinking. Speaking of which. I'm starving."

Gandalf laughed then. "A true hobbit indeed!"

Frodo came forward. "Pippin, it's good to see you safe." He smiled a little. "I'm sure these fine folks would be glad to provide some provender, but if only you could see yourself, I'm sure the first thing on your mind would be a bath."

Pippin looked down at himself. "A! My uniform!" He clapped a hand to his chest and sent up a great puff of ash. "A bath and a laundry. Why, you can't even see the White Tree. Oh, and a seamstress, too, I suppose. Arrow hole," Pippin explained, indicating his left arm.

"And a healer," said Aragorn, suddenly grim. "Come, Pippin, my chambers stand just back of the throneroom. It is a short walk, and I will tend you there. Bath, food, and all will be brought to you, and I will send one of my servants to fetch athelas."

"And I will be glad!" Pippin said. "But first, I have something in here for you." He rummaged in the sack again, and pulled out a large book. It was very old, and had gold lettering on the leather cover.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked, taking the book and opening a page at random. "It is written in Ancient Adunaic!"

"It's the Book of Arzimrathon," Pippin said. "I looted it from Minas Morgul. Don't worry, it's just a book. It's not magic or anything."

Aragorn's sea grey eyes widened. "Thank you, Pippin." He stared at Pippin a moment. Then he closed the book. "Come."

End of Part 16


	17. Chapter 17

Nine For Mortal Men Part Seventeen

Pippin was on his second batch of bath water. He could not see the marks on his back, but they must have been really bad, because when Aragorn got a look at them, he sent his servants to fetch more hot water and had brewed a batch of athelas right in the tub. Pippin was soaking in it now. He was also munching alternately on a pear and a smoked cheese, which he held in either hand. Every once in a while, Aragorn insisted that Pippin dunk his head in the athelas water. Despite the previous bath, the wholesome scented water now had a layer of ash floating on it. There was also a pink tinge, from the arrow wound.

"The arrowhead is going to have to come out," Aragorn said. "Elrond will remove it. I am a healer, but no surgeon. So far, here in Minas Tirith, he has had no use of his surgeon's tools but placing the rings in that pouch with the compartments."

"Oh?" Pippin asked, between bites. "I'd wondered how they got in there, and if someone had had to handle them."

"With tongs," Aragorn said. "Little ones. That's how the One Ring got onto a chain and around Frodo's neck in Rivendell, too."

"Really." Pippin finished the fruit and gestured for Aragorn's attentive servant to bring the tray forward again.

"There are two ways to do this, Pippin, and I'll leave it up to you. You can take a sleeping draught…"

Pippin shuddered, and looked as if he wanted to say something, but his mouth was full.

"Yes, the same kind," said Aragorn, "but it is not overly dangerous when taken alone, without strong drink. Or you can stay awake."

Pippin chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Which do you recommend?"

"As a healer, I recommend staying awake. You have had a rough time, and adding a pharmacopeia to the various insults to your body will not aid your recovery. As your friend, however, I would spare you the pain. This is the sort of procedure for which the field surgeons of Gondor's army employ strong orderlies, to hold the patient down."

"Oh. Ah. Sleeping draught it is." Pippin said. There was no trace of embarrassment in his tone; if hobbits ever felt the need to prove themselves by acts of endurance, Pippin certainly did not feel that way the day after destroying the Nine.

For the surgery, Pippin, Aragorn, Elrond, and some of Elrond's elves went to the Houses of Healing. Pippin woke up there, in a clean white bed in a sunny room. It was evidently several days later, because Merry was beside him. Merry was sitting in a man-size wooden chair, swinging his legs and munching on something.

Pippin rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Merry! You're back!"

Merry leapt off the chair and rushed to Pippin's side. "You're alright! I was so worried."

"Agh," Pippin made a dismissive noise, "don't worry about me, Merry, it was just a few soldiers with swords and bows, and a volcano, and whatnot, we Tooks are made of sterner stuff than that." Pippin remembered he could move his hands, so he added a dispelling wave. The loose white sleeve of his patient robe fell back, exposing sinuous black bruises encircling his forearm many times around.

Merry's eyes widened and he caught Pippin's hand. "Good heavens, Pippin! Did I do that to you?"

"Well, yes. But it's no nevermind now."

"Why didn't you say something?" Merry let go.

"I did say something, the first time. You don't remember it because you were three sheets to the wind, as the Corsairs of Umbar say."

"Huh?"

"Drunk off your ass, I mean. I never said anything again, because you were right, Merry."

"I was right about what."

"Ooh, for once you were right and you can't recall it! Hee hee hee! Is there breakfast?"

"Pippin!" Merry whined, aiming a slap at his arm out of habit.

Pippin reacted before the blow could land. He struck like Ursuka stooping on an orc, and clapped both his hands over Merry's, stopping him cold. "You fool of a Brandybuck! Don't hit me, scurvy take you, I just had a godsbenighted arrowhead taken out of me, you siren-led wharf-smashing land-footed walrus-loving rope-tangling—landlubber!"

Merry stared, wide-eyed. After a moment, he withdrew his hand, and said, "Sorry, Pippin. What's a walrus?"

Pippin cackled. He tried to respond, then dissolved in laughter again. Finally he chuckled, "Never mind, Merry, that's Umbarian sailor talk. Not for the tender ears of good Shire-folk."

"Pippin," Merry asked threateningly. "What. Is. A. Walrus."

"Mmm, heh heh, it's a sort of a seagoing oliphaunt, but not quite as big. Well, it doesn't really have legs exactly, or ears, but it does have tusks."

"Is it very ugly?" Merry asked, in a deeper tone of menace.

"Quite. Quite ugly," Pippin giggled.

"When you're better, Pippin, I'm going to get you for that. And you're not going to see it coming."


	18. Chapter 18

Nine For Mortal Men Part Eighteen

At last Pippin was back in the hobbits' guest house. He went out into the little garden and leaned on the wall with his good arm, looking at the sky. The air still smelled of sulfur, but all the visible ash was on the ground. Frodo rose from a low seat and joined him at the wall.

"How do you feel, Pippin?"

"Groggy."

"Merry tells me you kept the arrowhead."

"Yes, I mean to hand it back to Faramir at some highly inappropriate moment. Can't pass up a good chance for mischief, after all, or I wouldn't still be a Took."

"You have nothing to prove in that regard," said Frodo, a little too seriously.

"Goodness sakes, Frodo, I didn't mean to imply I think I'm not." Pippin looked at Frodo's hands, draped over the white marble, and suppressed an impolite shudder at the sight of the mutilated finger. "I hated you for a while, you know."

"I imagine you did." Frodo did not look at him, but shifted uncomfortably and started fidgeting with something on a chain around his neck.

"Uh, Frodo—what's that?" Pippin asked in a tone of dread.

"Nothing. Just a pendant. Um, see?" Frodo turned toward him then, displaying a white jewel.

"It's not nothing," Pippin accused. "I know that sound. That has the ring of a lie, Frodo, I'd say, yes, it rings false. Don't think you can dance rings round the truth with me now."

"Alright, alright! You don't have to keep saying that. If you must know, Arwen gave it to me. In the way of a parting gift, you understand. We'll all be heading home soon, us hobbits, and the elves heading for Rivendell, and many of the great folk are going with us as far as Rohan."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Don't try that innocent blue eyes expression on me, Frodo, I know the shadow world. I know the taste of the ash that blows there, where the fire once burned. I know the gaze of the great deceiver."

Frodo sighed, and stared out over the city. "It's a symbol." He paused for a long time.

Finally Pippin said, "I hope you aren't planning to reply in Entish."

Frodo tried to smile at the feeble jest, but the expression died on his lips. "She gave me her place on the ship, Pippin. I am going into the West."

"What? How?"

"That spell you brought back. The re-anchoring. How did you manage to use it?"

"Wait a moment, don't change the subject."

"I'm not. How did you cast a Morgul spell? You had barely had the Nine for a few weeks. Even with having seen the Eye in the Palantir, you should not have been able to attune that fast."

"You said it yourself, Frodo. Will gets in the way."

"Oh." Frodo let the pause go on too long again, absently following the flight of a stray seagull as it dived over the heap behind the inn far below.

"So, what about the spell? Did Gandalf try it on you?"

"No. He thought it was a curse, actually. Sorry. But it does seem to have done the trick; Gandalf and Elrond both say you are no longer faded, no longer subtle. So you have no need to come yourself to the Undying Lands, to prevent you from becoming a ghost."

"Wait, Frodo—are you saying that if I hadn't had Tarondor cast the re-anchoring on me, I could have gone too?"

"Well, nobody has said so in so many words, but my guess would be yes. They would have found some way to bring you along."

Pippin made a little squeak, but said nothing. He turned away and wiped at his face, then made a sort of flapping motion as if smoke was getting in his eyes.

Frodo set his four fingered hand on Pippin's shoulder. "Do me a favor."

Pippin turned back toward Frodo, dislodging his hand, and snarled through his tears, "A favor? You drop that on me and then ask for a favor?"

"Don't tell Sam I'm leaving Middle-Earth."

"Oh. Sure."

Pippin pulled out a pocket handkerchief and dried his face. "You're not going right away, are you? I mean, could you hold out about, oh, four years?"

"Why four years?"

"Because you and Merry and going to throw me a massive coming of age party, of course. It's going to be bigger than Bilbo's birthday party. Lots of food and drink, fiddlers and dance bands, pipe weed—you two can pay for it all of course—"

"And why would we do that?" Frodo teased, amused despite himself.

Pippin suddenly brought his face nose to nose with Frodo and whispered, "Because you owe me." Then he moved back to the wall, and resumed chattering lightly in normal hobbit fashion, as if nothing had happened, "And of course I expect you to talk Gandalf into giving a display of his fireworks. And I'm going with tradition, of course—giving away lots of party favors. I think I'm going to find something very special for you, Frodo. Birthday Present. Heh heh heh."

"That is the most evil laugh, Pippin." But Frodo was smiling. It was not a carefree hobbit smile; it reminded Pippin of Gandalf somehow. But still, a smile nonetheless. "Of course I'll help plan your party. Friends again?" Frodo held out his four fingered hand.

Pippin hesitated only a moment before he clasped it and shook. "We hobbits have got to stick together."

They turned back to the view, and the sun came out over the White City. All was warm and bright, and cheerful. In every avenue and alley, and on every balcony and byway, the people of Minas Tirith began to wash away the ash. And everyone was happy. If not ever after, at least for an hour or so.

The End


End file.
